


Honey, Smoke, Shiver

by machiavelli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha Tom Riddle, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mates, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Harry, Possessive Behavior, Scent Marking, but much later lol, probably a great deal of fluff, will add more when more chapters are added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-07-15 17:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16068062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machiavelli/pseuds/machiavelli
Summary: Harry - Omega, only son of Lord Potter - is nothing more than a playing card in a political game of power and money, one that is traded gleefully to buy the social and financial capital of the famed Tom Riddle: powerful, enigmatic, pureblood alpha.Unsurprisingly, Harry loves being underestimated.





	1. One

The tiny pinprick of flame hovering over the candle wax flickers out, and Harry sighs. 

He's done it again _._  

Getting to his feet, he glances around furtively, hoping nobody saw. Well - even if they did, they wouldn't attribute it to him and his strange, inexplicable ability. 

He steps over to the ghost-like lamps that had been cheerily lighting the room before he managed to silence them, and slowly, methodically,  _manually_  lights them with a match. The rough groan the friction makes as he strikes it puts him on edge each time he lights another one. Eventually, the large sitting room is cast in a soft light, and Harry can return to the velvet loveseat and settle down again.

It's late - the grand grandfather clock in the corner of the room shows the time to be nearing midnight. It's shadow stretches up belligerently to the high ceiling, obscuring the art work that Harry's father had painstakingly had painted on the year before. Harry finds the overly-bucolic cherub's constant stare mildly unnerving, if he's honest. Not that he's ever voiced so to his father- now  _that_ would just be asking for an argument. 

Humming slightly, he picks up the book he was reading: A Brief History of Astronomical Knowledge. It's good - he's managed to sprint through the first five chapters just tonight. He reads in silence for a further five minutes, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. It always beats a little faster when he accidentally does something he knows he shouldn't.

He's not surprised, though, when his concentration is broken by a door opening on the other side of the room. Sighing internally, he turns his head slightly, watching as one of the maids slips in. Her face softens when she sees the sight: Harry, clad only in his nightgown, knees tucked to his chest, hair messy and green eyes sleepy but glinting warmly and sharply in the low light. 

Although incongruously dressed, he looks right at home in the huge wood-panelled drawing room, shadowed on either side by floor-to-ceiling rows of beautifully bound books. 

The maid walks over slowly, carefully, still feeling dwarfed by the opulence on display. She's new, just come up from the village - not yet used to the Potter's grand Georgian home.

"Good evening, Sir," she says, voice ringing clear despite her nervousness. "Lord Potter has instructed you to be in bed by midnight so that you can wake up fresh and bright tomorrow." 

Harry wonders how his father would have delivered that message to her. It must irk him to have to impose a bedtime on his young Omega; he probably shouted.

He won't make her life difficult.

"As you wish," he replies quietly, marking the page with an old scrap of leather he's been carting round as a bookmark, and placing it gently on the glass side table, next to the crystal glass of whiskey. It's sides are marred with the evidence of his drinking this evening - absolutely forbidden by his father, and illegal anyway. Harry is too young, even without mentioning his secondary gender. He likes the burn of whiskey as it slips softly down his throat, likes that he's breaking the rules. It makes it taste better. 

The maid dutifully ignores this small act of rebellion, scurrying over to clear up the evidence. She's probably been informed of Harry's illicit understanding with the rest of the staff. Especially tonight, they won't begrudge him a drink. 

Harry prays she won't ask him about it. But of course she does - why would she not?

"How are you feeling about tomorrow, Sir?" she asks, bravely sending him a grin. They walk out of the main doors together, Harry peering up at the portraits they pass on the way. No omegas up there - just alpha after alpha. 

He smiles, tries to conjure up a slight slither of excitement. It must not work very well as her salacious look dims a little. He decides to be honest. After all - he won't be seeing her again after tonight.

"To be frank, a little nervous," he admits wryly, looking down at the claret coloured carpet. "I don't feel ready to leave here. Especially not with  _him_. I've held one conversation with the man - and we both know how well that went." 

The words have their intended effect, and she lets out a quiet laugh. It somehow makes Harry feel slightly better. Slightly. He scrubs a hand through his dark mop of hair, pushing it off his face. 

"Understandable, Master Potter. But you have to take the good with the bad too - his home is so  _grand,_ there'll be so many people to meet, a whole new way of living. In fact, it's the beginning of your new life, Sir!" she chirps proudly, completely missing the wince that Harry fails to repress. He makes a vague noise of agreement, thinking about his husband-to-be. 

Tom Riddle. 

See, really, what she  _means_ by whole new way of life is that Harry is being _mated_. He's seventeen, hasn't been allowed to venture outside of their region (aside from one memorable trip to the French Countryside), has had great pain taken to ensure he's never even so much as held an unsupervised  _conversation_  with an alpha - and now he's being sent to live with one. One that he has met on one, terrible occasion, which did not end with falling in love, sparks, or declarations of feeling. 

Frowning, he subtly smells his wrist.

He can still smell the other man - hot, spicy and a little sweet - from where he'd smeared his scent all over the other boy before he left. Last week. And even though it's undeniably faded, he can  _still_  smell him, still feels his heart rate pick up and his body flash hot, every time he catches the scent. Harry knows it's simply biology. But while Riddle is frustratingly, achingly attractive, he is also frustratingly, achingly _dangerous_. 

 

 *

 

_[A week earlier]_

 

Harry tries not to fidget, waiting in the adjoining room being fussed over by a staff of at least four. He just has to grit his teeth and let them fuss. In his opinion, any more than what they've done is just overkill - he likes his buttery soft, taupe trousers and tightly tailored jacket. They've managed to somewhat tame his hair into  _politely_  framing his face (instead of  _aggressively_ , like usual). But after having his cheeks and lips pinched periodically by the chubby, calloused fingers of the head maid, he's ready to fight them off one-by-one.

His nerves are making the blood rush to his head, and he strains his ears, trying to pick up glints of the voices in the other room over the excited chatter of the staff. Today is the day he is to meet the alpha his father has decided on for him. He has a rough idea of who it could be, but so far he's just heard snatches of a rough, low timbre - the tone pitched low enough that Harry can tune his hearing solely on it. He's  _dying_  of curiosity, and a little offended that he's been kept waiting in this holding pen of a room until his father decides the time is right to reveal him.

Harry know's that whilst he's an ace, he's still nothing more than a useful playing card. He tries not to think about what he's being traded for. 

Right away, he knew when the alpha had arrived. The house staff had been in a flurry of activity all morning, so he was aware someone was coming. But the moment the alpha stepped foot in the reception room, Harry just  _knew_. He'd stopped what he was doing, all senses suddenly straining to catch a glimpse, a scent, anything of whatever  _thing_  that had just made the pressure and temperature in the house flare for the briefest second.

Harry understands then, that his father has done well. He's done  _very well._  This is not an alpha - this is a pureblooded  _beast_. And, he realises, this means there is only one man who could possibly be standing in the room two doors away from him. 

Imagining the glee on Lord Potter's face at this triumphant success makes Harry feel vaguely nauseous. 

He's too late in realising that the voices in the other room have stopped. 

The butler is suddenly in front of him, lips thin in a condescending (as always) smile.

"Let's go, Sir," he murmurs with annoying, quiet carefulness. Harry can't stand people that think he's fragile, just because he's an  _Omega_. Before he has a chance to speak, he's being gently shepherded before the entrance to the other room , which opens immediately. The movement of the door sends a waft of the scents percolating in the room right into his face, and he's too stunned to move for the first few seconds.

It's difficult to explain - he's never quite encountered anything like it. 

It's not really a scent, although straight away he knows he'll never forget it for as long as he lives, so much as a feeling. It doesn't push him out of control or make him want to swoon or anything like that, like the rumours Harry's heard. It is undeniably powerful though: he _does_  feel the urge, bearing down silently but insistently, to please whoever it's coming from - to make sure he doesn't ever piss them off, to hide, run, make himself small. He can't quite tell if he wants attention from this alpha... or wants anything  _but._ Regardless, he's so surprised and off-kilter that it takes a subtle push from the manservant guarding the room in order for Harry to walk forward. 

He still hasn't looked up. He can't - manners dictate that eye contact can only be given if he's spoken to. It's been beaten in to him (well - more like starved) enough times that even though he's feeling unbalanced he manages to follow it through, even if only by reflex. The carpet is an ostentatiously deep bruised purple, well-trodden but clean, and stretches out like a horizon in front of him. He sees shoes, makes himself count the pairs even as he feels all the hair on his arms stand up. 

His father's, obsequiously shiny, large, one leg crossed over the other.

The laced boots of the servant waiting on them.

The final pair: black, pointed, unfamiliar. Ankles crossed casually. Harry can't tear his eyes away. 

His father clears his throat as if embarrassed.  _Nervous maybe_ , Harry muses. _Isn't this a_ _surprise_.

"Well, Harry. Introduce yourself." His father's voice is characteristically gruff, the sentence more of a series of barked words than anything more cohesive. Harry snaps out of it, speaks, and then raises his eyes. 

"Nice to meet you, Lord Riddle. I'm Harry Potter, sole heir to the Potter line."

The man that meets his gaze is unfairly beautiful. Dark black hair perfectly coiffed, contrasting with a pale angular jaw with a faint echo of stubble. The man's nose is straight and pointed, leading down to a plump cupid's bow, countenance giving nothing away. His eyes are what stops Harry in his assessment.

Dark blue, cold, assessing. Horrifyingly astute, Harry realises. He wants to look away but he doesn't know if he can. It feels like the man's steady stare is running over Harry with intent, gazing  _into_  him, slipping insidiously into his mind. He suddenly feels the man's power flare in the room, a brief doubling of gravity, making his fingers tremble from where they're clenched into surreptitious fists. 

Funnily enough, it's his father who saves him.

"Seventeen. Obviously unspoiled," he announces proudly, as if describing his favourite gun. Safely ensconced in his head, Harry bares his mental teeth and gnashes them together. 

He breaks eye contact to look (glare as much as he can get away with) at his father - who  _is_  sweating slightly, hands clasping each other in a surprisingly obvious show of apprehension - but can still feel the weight of Riddle's gaze boring into him. His scent, his _presence_  is off-putting. Makes it difficult to think.

Riddle ignores Lord Potter, to Harry's surprise. "How did you know who I am?" The question is asked curiously, lazily, the words perfectly pronounced - no hint of any accent. Harry wants to curl up inside his voice and go to sleep. 

He tries to avoid eye-contact, but trying to avoid those eyes is like trying to swim through honey. He finds his gaze dragged back, syrupily, against his will.  _What does he say?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I realise this is entirely self-indulgent and gratuitous, but there is a surprising (and terrible) lack of A/B/O Tom/Harry fics :-( 
> 
> Anyway, I've changed my writing style/tense from Field Theory for this and I'm finding it surprisingly more fun - let me know what you think and if I should keep going with this!
> 
> Also this is more of a teaser than a chapter - I like to write about 5k words per chapter, so the second will be much longer.


	2. Two

For a beat Harry considers blurting out the truth: because only a pureblood would be able to flex their power in such a way and make me fight to take a full breath,  _sir,_  why do you _think?_

He hates being played with.  But Harry understands that voicing it will give the game away; instead he gazes back steadfastly, eyes calm, refusing to give the alpha the satisfaction of forcing Harry to break eye contact.

He quickly rephrases: "there is only one pureblood in London, sir." It's a little presumptuous for him to bring up blood status just like that, and his father stiffens in his chair but says nothing. Harry is mildly surprised at the way his father seems to be bowing and scraping to somebody so jarringly young. 

Riddle, however, seems to look pleased, raising an eyebrow. He understands exactly what Harry means.

"Indeed there is." 

The murmur lingers in the air and the back of Harry's neck prickles at the low tone. He wonders if the other man can feel the pull between them, the burst of energy rippling over the surface of his skin, just from having Riddle's gaze skim over the lines of his waist. He feels like he's drowning in that heavy, wild stare, barely concealed by a thin veneer of civility. It seems that Riddle can wear the polite mask well, but Harry can see through it easily. It's hiding something dangerous beneath.

 _So. This is who he is to marry_.   

Lord Potter seems to come back to himself, frowning and clearing his throat in an effort to diffuse whatever strange air has been cultivated by their exchange. "Well, yes, quite right." He turns to Harry, running an perfunctory gaze down his body, assessing his most prized bargaining chip. "You will be joining Lord Riddle at Riddle Manor early next week. You are to wed shortly after - for obvious reasons, I think, you will not be taking suppressants along with you."

Harry's face burns at his words, a sickening, humiliated blush creeping thornily across both his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Anger flickers to life. If they take away his suppressants, he will go into heat. He hasn't experienced a proper heat since he was fifteen, and even through the thick, suffocating smoke of _need_  that covers his memories, he knows it is one of the worst things he has ever experienced. 

"But, sir, surely-" His protests are cut off. 

"No buts, Harry. You will do as I say and be pleasant about it. This is your duty - both to me and to yourself; behave."

Around the room, the servants that he's grown up with are smiling as his father tells him off like he is a small, petulant child whining about a second slice of cake. They are happy for him - and he knows that despite their many conversations over the years, Harry is still an omega first and a person second. They think he can't be anything other than hopelessly ecstatic at this news.

Harry hates the way he remains standing while both men are seated, arranged elegantly, casually, in great, ostentatious Persian armchairs that his father purchased in an auction in Morocco a few years back - Harry feels a brief flare of sympathy for the chair. He is also a "particularly interesting" auction piece. Not once during this conversation has he been offered a seat.  

His father's objectification, as it always does, makes his blood boil, singeing his bones. He can't help it: the fire in the grand fireplace behind Riddle and his father's chair dims, almost goes out. Harry knows the amount of fury he is blackly pushing out, blanketing the room in, needs to be reigned in. The embers are now a lugubrious low sputter, a stark contrast to the flickering flames that had been merrily burning away before, lapping at the black wood like a cat. 

He stops himself.

He is off-balance, he realises distantly, he is used to having significantly more patience than this. Riddle's quiet, watching presence is corroding his self-control. The staff have always whispered about Harry, about how the flames behave strangely whenever he is in the rooms. Unsurprisingly, when he looks up the smiles have slipped off their faces, Dali-esque, although they don't open their mouths. They can't. Harry bites back a malicious grin.

Remaining silent is dangerous - there are plenty of ways his father can make his last night at the Potter House unenjoyable. He digs his canines into the soft flesh of his tongue, tries to push away that warm, coaxing scent enveloping him.

Of course," he grinds out; he can't say anything else. 

To his surprise, Riddle rises gracefully to his feet and Harry is suddenly taken aback with just how  _large_  the other man is. He doesn't even tower: he  _looms_  over Harry, his presence sucking Harry towards him like gravity. He stops himself from taking a step backwards, locks his knees to keep his ground. Riddle's lips move in the barest imitation of a smirk, nostrils flaring, like he can tell. 

The alpha sidles forward slowly, deliberately, past where even the limits of 'publicly acceptable' can be stretched, invading Harry's personal space until he is encroaching over him, bodies millimetres away from touching. Harry freezes up instinctively, mouth dry, willing his body to move so he can step away, put some space between them.

Horrified, he feels the heat of the alpha's presence baking through his jacket, feels soft, measured breaths fanning over his hair. He is so close that Harry's head is almost tucked into Riddle's shoulder, view of the room completely obscured by his body - a classic Omega comfort position, as his tutors had drilled in to him. What they would think of him if they could see him now? His nose is full of Riddle's scent, insidiously winding around Harry, stroking his tongue, the back of his throat.

To keep himself calm, he focuses on the intricate night-blue thread of the alpha's jacket, expertly woven, probably in Paris, purposefully ignores the sound of his heartbeat setting out a frantic gallop in the curve of his ribs. He can feel the hormones dripping, sickeningly sweet, into his blood supply, rushing through his body to relax his muscles and blanket his thoughts in a thin soup of contentment. He  _hates_  it, fights it with everything he has, refuses to close the gap between them and give in. Distantly, he wonders what this must look like to the rest of the room. 

To his complete and utter shock, Riddle dips his head and noses down towards Harry's scent glands, deliberately breathes him in. It's  _completely_  inappropriate - they are not mated yet, not to even mention the bystanders. 

"What are you _doing?_ " he asks shakily, angrily, uncaring that speaking out to a pureblood like this is absolutely forbidden.

Harry feels a wave of dizziness as in front of him the alpha stiffens slightly and lets out a barely audible growl, rumbling deep in his chest.

He's never really felt this before. His father has no problem at all in using his alpha traits to shove Harry back into line - he is used to hearing Commands, the short sharp blasts of scent which make his legs shaky and his stomach sick. But this is another level. The sound Riddle makes, even though he's pretty sure it's inaudible to anyone but him, makes his the very fibres of his muscles feel light and floaty - like he's sinking into a filthily warm bath - and he has to throw himself into the thought of standing.

Riddles mouth is right next to his ear when he speaks.

"Isn't it obvious, little one? I want to see what I bought."   


It takes a few seconds for the meaning of the words to filter in. Rage floods through Harry, clearing the biochemical debris from his synapses. Trying not to breathe in, he gathers himself, casts around for the nebulous shards of his control that have spread slipperily away and pulls them back in. Moving through the haze, Harry reaches out and  _pushes_.  

Riddle takes a small step back - probably more of a courtesy than actually because Harry has managed to move him by himself - and the world falls back into place. Humiliated, Harry eyes flit around: everyone in the room has their gaze politely averted, smirks spread uniformly on their faces, like they think this is a cute, if slightly risque, show of courting.

Damn them all.

"Well you can  _see_  from over there," Harry growls, ignoring the outraged splutter coming from his father. He'll be whipped for this. 

For the briefest second, Riddle looks taken aback, like he didn't expect this, before the corners of his mouth lift up slightly.

Harry has just enough time to realise that antagonising an alpha was a really _stupid_ thing to do, before a hand is on the back of his neck, gripping him right where the pressure point lies. Riddle moves incredible quickly for his body mass, and Harry has no time to react, before he's pulled back into the alpha's arms, weight transferred.

Heat pools in his stomach, spreading through his body and settling in a fuzzy haze in his eyes. His head feels hot, foggy, and he watches as Riddle's fingers find his own scent gland, swiping over the oily sheen before he carefully, but thoroughly, cards his fingers along Harry's gland. It feel so good, he can feel his mouth fall open, lids fluttering half closed as Riddle's scent envelopes him like a bath.

The mortification of his father watching this is burnt away by the sheer pleasure of what Riddle's hands are doing. He doesn't think about the fact that this is a marking - that now no other alpha will want to come near him until his scent fades. Can't really think of anything; he's too focused on the liquid blooming in his chest and spreading through his limbs. He feels _drugged_. 

He hears his father and Riddle speak, aware but not really listening, and then, as quickly as it began, he is gently released. 

The world filters back in, now that the delicious, fleeting, terrible pressure on his neck is gone. The fire in the grate has gone out. 

 

*

 

_[Present]_

Harry wakes in the morning, a soft emergent alertness which spreads through his brain. He yawns, eyes fluttering against the sunlight spilling through the window like melted butter. The peace and calm last for all of twenty seconds - and then he remembers what today is. 

In the safety of his room, he lets his mask crack - he groans loudly, and stuffs his head under the thick feather pillow. He rests there in the warmth for a few moments, scooping up his barriers and making sure they're firmly in place.

When his head emerges from the pillow, it's to take a long last look around his bedroom. It's been his room for the last three years - ever since he was fourteen. He likes it - it's  _his_  space, a place to retreat to, full of all his weird and beloved objects. The room is undeniably ostentatious - french-style golds and creams, with a beautiful egg-shell blue rug stretching out across carpet, refreshingly contrasted with the light, velvet furniture. His four-poster bed is huge, and by far the best thing in the room, with a beautifully heavy embroidered throw that Harry knows would cost more than a servant makes in a lifetime. He didn't decorate it himself, of course, Lord Potter had paid for the most fashionable interior designers to furnish the whole house. 

But when he looks around, he doesn't see a glaringly aggressive display of wealth (which, of course, is all the house is). He sees his ivory bowl of bright feathers in the corner, that he'd been collecting from the ground peacocks since he was six, the simple marble chessboard that his grandfather had carved for him as an eighth birthday present the year before he died, the landscape painting that he'd attempted (truly, truly, terrible) which the head maid had, to Harry's chagrin, firmly insisted they hang above the door. It's his room and he'll never see it again. Not in the same capacity at least.

He sighs, wondering what Riddle Manor will look like. Despite the balls thrown there every year, he's never been allowed to accompany his father, although he's heard from others that it is wildly gorgeous. What will his new room look like? 

The realisation hits him that it won't be  _his_  room - it will be  _their_  room. He shudders, remembering the strong grip on the back of his neck. It would seem Riddle is not afraid to use whatever weapons he has against Harry, even though it is usually frowned upon.  _Bastard_ , he thinks viciously. 

The frown on his face dissipates as he think about what that means. Biology is a two-way street after all, and if Riddle can affect him this much, the opposite must be true. Thinking back on the other man's reactions only bolsters this idea. Riddle was definitely more affected than he had let on, Harry is sure. He thinks that maybe the other man didn't mean to get quite so carried away - the scent marking was probably a reflex to Harry pushing him away.

 _Let him try,_  Harry thinks resolutely. He does not plan to sit there and take it. 

 

*

  

After a morning full of the house staff shoving him around (into the large dome of the porcelain bath tub where he'd been scrubbed with flakes of sea salt and honey, lathered in essential oils, his hair soaped and tamed, and then into his dressing room where they had deliberated and clucked for what seemed like hours over what he should wear to greet his new husband) Harry is finally seated in their finest carriage, staring soberly out the window. Lunch has been forgotten in the haste to pack up his belongings, despite the maids arguing that Riddle will just order it thrown away as it carries a foreign scent, and he hears his stomach growl over the noise of the horses.

It is a full days ride to his new home, and the sun is beginning to slip bitterly down into the horizon, throwing a red glow over the autumn trees. He has a blanket but the carriage is still cold - he's insisted on having the windows open so he can see the castle as it comes into view. 

It does not disappoint. Riddle manor is an imposing work of architecture, towering up out of the ground, a pale, pillared stone giant reaching up towards the sky like Atlas. It is certainly beautiful. Even the driveway is huge, stretching tongue-like towards the grand front of the manor, framed with great oaks, still weeping orange leaves. Harry can't quite believe it is all for one man.

_Is this what being a pureblood really means?_

As the horses race them towards the entrance, he can see the tiny dark pin-pricks start to morph into the staff of the house, dotted along the stairs in solemn welcome. His heart begins to beat faster as he recognises the man at the back, standing much taller than the others, posture impeccable. 

 _Hello, husband_ , Harry thinks to himself grimly.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys I HATE MYSELF I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED ALL THE WORK I DID ON THIS CHAPTER and it was fucking rEADY TO POST - sat there in stunned, horrified silence and realised that all the sentences i spent the last hour writing had been vanished into nothingness. 
> 
> then i had to sit there and rewrite it trying desperately to place the fragments of the chapter that i remembered - so sorry if it seems a little disjointed 
> 
> Anyway. Thank you SO MUCH FOR YOUR KUDOS/COMMENTS! i'm really stoked you guys are liking this :D


	3. Three

As soon as it grinds to a halt Riddle is there immediately, right outside the carriage door, proffering an arm as one of his staff opens it. Harry sits for a moment, listens to the barked orders of the servants as they organise the movement (probably to the waste pit) of his belongings and draws a deep breath of cold autumn air. He doesn't keep the alpha waiting - he leans over and delicately slips from the carriage to the ground, Riddle's arm taking the whole of Harry's body weight with horrifying ease.

"Welcome home, Harry," Riddle opens with, voice like silk, glancing down with a sharp smile and dark, knowing eyes. "We're glad to have you with us." 

Harry nearly scoffs out loud. Instead, he smiles sweetly, venomously back, green eyes flashing. "Glad to be here, sir," he counters. This is a charade for the staff and nothing more; he has not forgotten the ruthlessness of that large hand on his neck.

They walk up the stone outdoor steps until they are shadowed in the grand entrance hall of the manor. The stories he's heard are right - it's  _huge_ , and breathtakingly lavish. Servants scurry out the way, each step echoing, and Harry recognises a few of his trunks in their arms. Even the quality of their uniform is sumptuously rich, each bustling person striding with proud, hurried purpose.

Riddle seems to understand Harry's silence, as they pause their for a moment, Harry pivoting slowly on the spot to take everything in, before continuing. Harry watches him surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye as they cross the floor. He walks like a predator, stalking fluidly past the grandeur of the main hall, especially when compared to Harry's awe-stricken jerky movements. The servants seem to move out of his path unconsciously - he has a radius of unimpeachable space around him which they seem unwilling to breach. It's absolutely unfair that someone much larger than him, even if he is somewhat lithe, can be so much more graceful.

"How was the journey?" Riddle asks politely, gazing down at him (Harry's head just about reaches the other man's broad shoulders). Harry realises he's been caught staring, and looks away pretending not to care. He doesn't like the feeling of the alpha's eyes - they weigh down his skin and at the same time make him strange, and overheated.

"Pleasant enough, my lord," he replies, tilting his head to the side without thinking. It's a natural response to Riddle's attention, but he still berates himself when he notices it, subtly reorienting. Anyway, it's true - the day spent in the carriage was not particularly terrible, but it's left him feeling grimy and stiff. And a little overwhelmed. "But I would appreciate some time to rest after a day of travel," he finishes with a wry grin.

For some reason, at this Riddle's stare travels down the length of his body, causing Harry to blush. He feels dissected. "Of course," Riddle answers, looking away, and flicks two fingers at some staff waiting by the a column under grand staircase.  

They instantly hasten over, and he gestures to the younger one: a small, freckled beta about Harry's age with a fuzzy mop of brilliantly red hair. "I'll leave you with Ron here, your primary manservant. He'll help you to settle in."

The boy in question gives him a tiny, but toothy smile. His eyes look kind, if not a little wide with wonder - it's probably his first time seeing an omega. Harry instantly likes him. 

"Pleasure to meet you sir," Ron pipes up somewhat shyly. He keeps his head bowed, eyes purposefully lowered in Riddle's presence. Harry nods at him in response, smiling gently. He had thought the boy Irish but, surprisingly, his plummy accent is distinctly British.

"You as well." 

Before he can say much else, Riddle interrupts. "Ron, please help our guest to his rooms and draw a bath for him," the alpha instructs, the deceptively gentle buzz of a Command falling out of his mouth, staining the words like wine. Harry is begrudgingly impressed (and irritated, as he fights the syrupy hum that rises up at the sound) - his father has to put a lot of energy into Commands, and even then he would never bother to waste them on a servant. Riddle seems to have it as a natural undercurrent to his voice though, too lazy or too powerful to reign it in.

The boy's face pales at the direct address by his master, and he stumbles over his words in a hurry to acquiesce, stammers escaping his mouth like bees fluttering their wings. 

"O-Of course, Lord Riddle, I'll do that right away sir." His eyes flit to Harry - or, more accurately, Harry's sternum. "If you'll just follow me, milord."

Harry's amusement is quickly replaced by confusion at Riddle's specification of a bath (he's not  _that_  bad; all he's done is sit in a carriage and mope), before he remembers that alphas have a much keener sense of smell. It must be irking Riddle to have an omega reeking of another (even if paternal) alpha walk into his home. Harry holds back a smirk but it ends up fading all by itself. Once he washes, he'll have nothing left of his home. Old home, he corrects himself. 

He says nothing, suddenly wanting to be alone, just dips his head politely to the master of the house and turns to follow his new manservant. 

Before he's taken so much as a step, Riddle's cold hand grips his wrist, preventing him from moving. Harry jumps a little, shocked, accidentally meeting his eyes. They're smoky with satisfaction. 

"Harry." He hates that his name sounds so good in that low timbre. Riddles large thumb gently rubs over his pulse point, probably feels it speed up and start to pump frantically. 

Harry subtly tests his grip, tries to pull his hand away, but his fingers are like bands of steel: immovable. "Yes?" he gets out, not quite knowing what the other man is looking for. Riddle keeps his wrist for a beat longer, just to prove a point, then gently lets him go, but not before leaning down and pressing his lips gently to Harry's cheek, the softest imitation of a kiss.

"Enjoy your bath," Riddle drawls, taking a deep breath of Harry's scent. The alpha's own scent invades Harry's lungs, replacing oxygen for a brief, beautiful few seconds, just long enough for his limbs to start to go sleepy and relaxed.

Harry's face burns with mortification as he's released, and he forbids himself to take another lungful of air, however much he wants to. Ron is standing a few metres away, looking purposefully in the other direction, tips of his ears scarlet in second hand embarrassment. Harry hurries over, purposefully not looking back to where Riddle is stationary, watching him leave. 

 

*

 

Sinking down into the hot, fragrant water, Harry lets out an indecent sound. Lavender flavoured steam rises from the still surface, wrapping lovingly around his face and clearing his head. Riddle's bath tube is  _obscene_. 

He floats there, letting the water around him soothe his tiredness, for a good twenty minutes, until he feels soft and loose. He closes his eyes, enjoying the sound of silence after hearing the thundering of the horses hooves for the good part of ten hours. It's taken a good hour for the ringing in his ears to quieten down.

Especially in this part of the manor, near Riddle's own rooms, there is a subtle scent in the air which seems to scream  _alpha_  and, despite the bath, he's still a little off balance because of it. It's difficult to properly describe, but Harry's body seems acutely and constantly aware that a new, foreign alpha is close by.

He smooths his palms down the sides of his body, slippery in the water, and wonders what will happen to him. He's supposed to be off his suppressants by now... but Harry knows where his father keeps the key to his desk drawer. There is no way in  _hell_  that Harry is going sit by and get happily knocked up in the first week of meeting his new husband. He absolutely refuses to be stuck in the mentally incinerating inferno of a heat, to get bonded without even being aware enough to struggle. He is going to try to keep this playing field as even as he can, for as long as he can. 

He just hopes Riddle can't smell it. 

His suppressants are simple - two types of leaf which are ground together into a powder form and mixed with water. Harry dutifully gulps it down twice a week in the morning. The only problem is that the leaves are imported, and rare enough as it is, which thus makes them both incredibly expensive and difficult to get ahold of himself. Seeing as he has no money of his own (despite being the only heir to the Potter dynasty), he won't be able to purchase more and replenish his supplies when they run out. 

In Harry's estimates, he has enough of the ground leaves to last him a few months, which will have to be long enough for him to worm his way into Riddle's good books, and convince the alpha to slow down the whole process. Barter back a bit of his freedom. 

Harry sighs, and plays with the candles lighting the room. He pulls the flames out, so they're roaringly high, burning through the wax like a hot knife, and pushes them back in until they're tiny tots of fire bobbing on the spot. It's relaxing, and something he always does to calm himself down. Fire, and his ability to manipulate it at will, has always been the one friendly constant in his life.

Lying back in the heat and closing his eyes again, he cedes mental control of the candles, enjoying the sound of the water sloshing against pristine white porcelain. 

He can't quite relax - he almost expects Riddle to burst in at any moment.

 

*

 

They eat dinner together in the one of the reading rooms, which Harry is pleasantly surprised at. He expected Riddle to force them into one of the formal dining halls, imposed at either end of a long table, cutlery clinking in awkward, constricting silence. Instead, they sit closer, opposite each other in an intimate corner of the room, near a large, crackling fireplace, still under a high, elegant ceiling but with slightly cosier interior. It's still unbelievably grand. Harry wonders when this level of wealth will cease to amaze him. 

There is a large, gold-framed mirror hanging on one of the forest green walls behind Riddle, squeezed in between the many oil paintings, and Harry can see himself reflected in it: curiously small and etiolated next to Riddle's towering, straight back. He tries to avoid looking at it after that. 

The servants bring in course after course, all admittedly mouth-wateringly delicious. Warm, flaky rosemary and sea-salt bread with creamy olive oil, tantalisingly sweet balls of melon with wafer-thin salty strips of ham, oak-smoked salmon paired with dry, crisp white wine, and more and more. Harry's appetite falls away, though, the longer they sit there making polite conversation and the closer they draw to nighttime. The method of serving takes some getting used to: Riddle is served first, tastes the food, and either gives some sub-verbal indication of approval or disapproval, and only then will it be allowed to touch Harry's own plate. He finds this exceedingly odd - that Riddle insists on choosing what goes into his mouth - but writes it off as a strange alpha quirk. It's one of those eccentricities that he knows logically he should find disconcertingly weird and somewhat distasteful, but for some reason doesn't mind. 

"So, Harry." Riddle has paused for a while, to finish his food (what Harry hopes is their last course: seared duck, marinated in blood-orange and star anise, beautifully tender and juicy) taking a small sip of the deep red wine that came with this course. Harry stops eating instantly, straightens slightly. The tone of Riddle's voice has shifted, albeit softly. 

When he looks up from his plate, the alpha has a disconcertingly easy smile playing on his face. It immediately puts Harry on edge: although there's no indication of anger, he still feels his skin prickle, can still tell that under the smirk, Riddle's teeth are  _sharp_. 

"Sir?" he asks warily. He can already tell this he is not going to be asked another inane question about life on his father's estate. 

"Now that you're more...  _settled_ , I think it's time you explained something to me." His voice is purposefully creamy, misleadingly kind. The tone, and Riddle's subtle reorientation so they are suddenly seated closer together, thighs pressing close, laps at Harry's agitation, gently teasing it out of the grooves of his brains and replacing it with sickly sweet oxytocin. 

Even so, Harry still feels ice trickle slowly through his veins, freezing down into the pit of his stomach. He puts down his knife and fork, prepares himself, cements his mask of an obedient omega. Riddle seems to be waiting for him to respond so Harry gathers himself, tries to convey a picture of innocence and confusion. Well, the confusion part is very much the truth - he has no idea what Riddle thinks he's done.

"And what would that be?" he asks lightly, entire body now horribly attuned to Riddle's reactions. He is starting to realise that the alpha is surprisingly difficult to read, even for an omega.

"Why is it, Harry, that despite your reassurances, I can still smell suppressants on you?" Riddle asks, nonchalantly, taking another bite of duck. His eyes track Harry's face, black and unreadable in the low light. Maybe a little angry, Harry thinks as his throat closes up in shock.

His smile freezes in place on his face and he suddenly feels sick.  _Just how good is Riddle's sense of smell?_  No other alpha Harry has encountered (although he hasn't exactly met many),  _including his own_   _father_ , has ever been able to tell the difference. His mind is spinning in panicked circles, trying desperately to come up with a plausible response.  _Should he just deny it? Call Riddle's bluff?_

It's the only thing he  _can_  do.

"I don't know what you mean, sir," Harry fumbles through the sentence, off-guard, but he think he manages to make it sound convincing enough.

Riddle's eyes glint, almost as if pleased by the obvious lie, and he leans forward towards Harry, inhaling through his nose. "Oh but I think you do," he murmurs, sending shivers down Harry's spine. 

Harry wonders what kind of pheromones he's giving off right now. Probably pretty distressed, he thinks savagely, pleased that at least Riddle will have to suffer through that.

The alpha lightly touches his napkin to each side of his mouth, folds it, and places it to the side of his plate, seemingly finished with his meal. He takes a moment to stare at Harry, almost as if cataloguing his expression. Then, in one fluid movement, he stands, pushing back his chair and looming over Harry, who hastily scrambles to his feet too, as manners dictate. 

"Lord Riddle?" Harry doesn't quite know what he's meant to do in this kind of situation. He's still clutching his napkin in one tight fist.  _Is he going to be punished? Surely not without proof?_

To his surprise, Riddle turns to the open fire, regal profile cast half in shadow, and stares into the flames for a few moments.

"Do you know what I can't abide, Harry?" he says softly, dangerously.

Harry shakes his head, mutely.

Riddle looks up, past Harry, and must give some signal as a servant, dressed as gloriously as the rest of them in pale blue and silver, quickly strides over from across the room, placing something in his outstretched palm before bowing shortly and returning to his post by the door. It's just him in the room, and, like the rest of Riddle's staff, his eyes are always averted, face impressively neutral.

"I don't much care for liars."

Riddle turns his head slightly to meet his eyes, shark-like. Harry is horrified - in the reflection of the fire his black eyes are a deep, glowing crimson. It might not even be the fire, Harry realises. He takes a small step back.

Riddle looks down at the object in his open palm and seems to study it for a few seconds. Harry follows his gaze: there, tiny and fragile in his large hand, is the small, invaluable bag of suppressants that Harry had hidden away in his personal,  _locked_  trunk. 

Before he can so much as open his mouth in anger, Riddle has titled his hand, and Harry watches in heartbreaking slow-motion as the leaves which give him a modicum of control over his own body flutter despondently into the coals and immediately burn up. The smell is awful - like burnt thyme, and acrid smoke coughs out from between the logs, burning his eyes.

Riddle smiles.

"Now then, desert?" 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your comments both about the fic and my (stupid) method of writing it - i have now followed your wonderful advice and started using googledocs, instead of typing it in to AO3 (why??? did i think that was a good idea???)
> 
> i've also been thinking a bit more about why (personally) i think this is more engaging than my other fic - writing in present-tense means you never get lost moving the plot along with a ton of character retrospective thinking (which i trip into ALL THE TIME with Field Theory). It's boring because hearing a maelstrom of their thoughts and finding out all the action and what happened that way kind of strips it of it's emotional power. whereas in the present-tense, you're pretty much along for the ride and everything seems to be charged with the fact that it's in the moment.
> 
> I've also been making myself try to put more dialogue in, as i think it's a much better way to flesh out characters, and more realistic way of story telling.
> 
> Idk - does anyone agree? disagree? let me know!


	4. Four

Harry distantly feels his head go very quiet and something hot unfurl in the pit of his stomach at the callous way Riddle dismisses the situation. His fists clench unconsciously, fingers trembling like train tracks. How  _dare_  he? He is biting down on his tongue, hard, to prevent words of anger spilling out, only too aware of the need to calm down, to take stock of this situation and  _not_  lose control. 

But Harry's rage is not a petty thing - it is fuelled by a hard, sour, desperation, and the realisation that Riddle has no qualms about destroying the very drugs that let him forget the curse of his biology and live normally (to some twisted extent) begins to burn through his rationality. 

Of course he can't help it, despite the years and years of painstaking, grounding control. 

The fire in the ornate fireplace spits, disgusted with its leafy meal, and begins to fizz frantically, flames spewing out like bubbles of hot sticky tar. It makes enough of a sound that Riddle eyes drop from their triumphant study of Harry's furious, dismayed countenance and fall to the fireplace. The alpha's eyes widen slightly with surprise, taking in the lumbering black flames, and slide back to Harry's face. 

The pit of Harry's stomach drops - he can tell from the curious, weighty stare that Riddle knows. That alone is enough for him to desperately pull back, tugging his awareness of the fire away, leaving him cold and bereft. He doesn't need to look to know that things are back to normal, and that the rest of the occupants of the room will not have noticed a thing. Not that it matters. He studiously keeps eye contact, refuses to let his horror show in his expression.

"Those were not yours to burn," Harry grinds out. His ploy at being a good little omega fractures and falls to the ground. Oh well - it's not his style anyway. His gets to his feet and tries to put himself at more equal footing. It doesn't really work though - he is still a good foot shorter than the other - but at least the distance has narrowed. Harry's feet feel twitchy under him. 

Riddle seems to go along with the conversation, but Harry can still see the gleam of interest in his face as he greedily drinks up Harry's expression. He starts to look gleeful, like Harry has presented him with an unexpected gift. It only worsens the apprehension he feels.

"Oh but they are." Riddle sidles closer, snake-like, voice deceptively soft. "Let us not forget the facts, little omega." He reaches out gently, lightly runs a slender fingertip down Harry's neck. Harry flinches in shock; the sheer audacity of the action causes his mouth to fall open. Regardless of secondary gender, touching another person's neck, where their scent glands are, is _highly_ intimate and taboo.

"You belong to me now. And therefore so do your belongings." 

Harry slaps the hand away, heart fluttering. Beating too fast, too lightly; he feels breathless at his blatant disobedience in the face of a creature his body has evolved to fear. "I am not a - a  _possession,_ " he sneers, knowing full well he is but standing his ground anyway. "You cannot  _keep_  me." 

Riddle's eyes darken to deep blue-black pools at Harry's challenge. Harry can't bring himself to regret antagonising him, especially so blatantly, but begins to feel nervous at the utter stillness of the other man. They way someone so tall and imposing can stand so unmoving is incongruous, unnatural. 

Slowly, maintaining eye contact, Riddle leans down. Harry stares him down, reckless, refusing to move until Riddle's hair is tickling his cheek. He feels the soft exhalation on his neck, each nerve a pinprick of feeling.

"You little fiery thing," Riddle murmurs, a note of odd surprise in his voice, "you have no idea of your worth, do you?" His words are barely a whisper against the shell of Harry's ear. Harry shudders, hearing an odd echo to the words and feeling something  _shift_  inside him. 

His heart races - he can feeling himself swaying towards Riddle, head going dizzy with the sheer _control_  in his voice. "Stop that," he snaps weakly, leaning back through sheer force of will. Even as he speaks the words he feels the sweet, addictive drag towards the other man begin to build again. It would be so easy, he can feel the urge to drop to his knees growing, pressing him down.

"Let me make it clear for you." Riddle's scent is winding around Harry, just as his fingers are winding around his arms, hot and heavy. "You are mine," the alpha speaks the words in the same slow, predatory pace. Like he knows he has Harry trapped in a corner with nowhere to go, and everything is simply an inevitable conclusion that he is too slow to have yet reached.

 _That does it_.

Harry grits his teeth, yanks his arms back as hard as he can, and steps away, fighting the urge to shake his head clear of whatever it is Riddle is doing to him. He feels unbalanced, like he can't trust his own senses. They are screaming at him to kneel, to bare his neck and whimper with acquiescence. 

Harry's grin is wild, and he lets it fester on his face. "I am no one's," he reemphasises, slowly. To his surprise, Riddle allows this, smiles down, almost pleased. The air is heavy, static, with both of them, Harry thinks. He becomes aware that they are alone - he has no idea where that singular servant has gone. It puts him on edge, that he didn't even notice him leaving. 

"I can already see I'm going to enjoy this, Harry." Riddle croons his name, tests it out with his tongue and wraps it around his smirk. The silence is weighty, and it lounges indolently for a brief moment. Harry doesn't quite know what is going to happen.

"But I suppose for now I can give you some small measure of what you seek," Riddle continues, taking a tiny step back from Harry, gazing down. "Let's call it a welcoming present."

Harry is confused, and it must show on his face.

"What, exactly, does that mean?" His words are careful, controlled.

Riddle's eyes crease. It suddenly makes him look his age - probably in his early twenties, Harry realises. Not that much older than himself. The way the alpha carries himself has always made him seem much older. They both stare at each other, bodies inches apart. Harry is panting lightly, fighting it, he thinks Riddle might be breathing a little quickly too, pupils blown wide.

From the corner of the room, the loud chime of the clock on the hour swims towards them, shattering whatever intense, thick atmosphere they have both managed to create. It seems to wake Riddle up somehow, as he straightens, appraising. He pauses, considering the mess of Harry in front of him - cheeks flushed, glaring, arms clenched.

"We'll speak further another time, I think." Riddle smiles as he speaks the soft words. "You must be tired." 

Harry's not given a chance to reply. Riddle does this strange thing where he slightly dips his head, a mockery of a bow, before turning and striding out the room, leaving Harry gaping, off-kilter, behind him.

  

*

 

Just in the act of leaving the reading room, he suddenly feels like he can breathe again. The air was so charged with scent, that stepping out into the hall feels like a cold gust of fresh air. He finds the missing servant outside the room, accompanied with Ron, who stares up at him in concern.

He doesn't even want to think about what he looks like - probably still very angry. It makes him soften his expression a little. It's not Ron's fault his master is an absolute prick. 

Harry promptly realises what Riddle means, and what concession he thinks he has made, as he is led back to one of the rooms he walked through to get to his bath - not the master bedroom that he was told he would be sleeping in.

The fury does not die down at this - if anything, it rises higher. It's somewhat dampened by the embarrassing feeling of relief that soothingly washes over him at the thought of at least being able to skip this hurdle tonight. It's a problem for another day. Now, thankfully, he can just crawl into the thick, feathery white bed, and finally get some space to himself. It still irks him though: did Riddle think it would change anything, letting Harry sleep alone for the first night? Did he really believe that Harry would be blown away at this small act of 'mercy', and come skipping down for breakfast the following day, ready to get mated right then and there on the breakfast table? He snorts into his pillow, imagining Riddle's face if he did so.

Strangely, it takes him a couple of hours to fall asleep. He's exhausted, body numb with tiredness and nursing an emotional and hormonal hangover, but his thoughts won't stop whirling around in his head, like a kind of repetitive, literary typhoon. He can't stop thinking about Riddle, about his apparently upcoming heat, how he's going to at least try to retain some freedom. He wants to run away - is that even feasible? If he has no suppressants, it's the height of stupidity to go wandering around Southern England alone, smelling like - well, like an omega in heat.

He wouldn't last a day. 

And anyway, Riddle has his scent. Harry intuitively understands the delicate instinctual biology involved in this; the more time he spends with Riddle, soaking in the scent of the other man, the more he's clothed, fed, and cared for with his money and his resources, the stronger possession the alpha will feel. There's just no way Harry could get away with leaving - every day he spends here makes it more and more unlikely, ties them together more strongly.

He tosses and turns, until the sheets are a twisted prison tying his legs together, head loud in the quiet of the huge room. Moonlight spills drunkenly from the tip of his window, throwing the room into greys and blacks. It's a starkly unfamiliar setting, and Harry mind moulds the furniture into monsters, the lampshade in the corner of the room a hulking, silently watching Riddle.

 

 


	5. Five

Harry eats breakfast alone. Again.

For the third day in a row.

He's in an entirely different room today - still in the same wing of the manor (he believes), this one more of a museum than anything else. Strange artefacts litter the surfaces, presumably bought back from Riddle's various travels - thick, richly coloured rugs, strange, delicately beaded lamp shades, bright artwork unlike anything Harry's seen before, hemmed in with ornately sculpted gold frames, an array of heart-breakingly lifelike marble busts, reaching up towards the ceilings from their ivory podiums at sporadic intervals around the room. It's very nice, overlooking some of the gardens, with large arched windows displaying a wealth of tired green grass and golden saplings. Harry watches a squirrel as it darts between trees, swinging its tail. It's briefly obscured from his view when a gust of wind causes a flurry of falling leaves, and by the time they float to the ground, it's gone.

He sighs despondently and cuts into the fruit on his plate, viciously stabbing at it with the sharp silver knife. He feels like Riddle has been purposefully keeping him guessing and off-balance - coming on thick and fast, draping himself over Harry, biologically-speaking, then retreating and disappearing, leaving Harry uncomfortably aware that he has no idea what his fiance does, or where he goes. There are some benefits, he supposes, like having somewhat free reign to explore his new home. Some parts of the building are shut away, whole wings hidden behind locked doors. He's sure there must be keys somewhere, but he can't really be bothered to begin the mammoth task of trying to find them.

It's strange to admit it, but he's actually really, really  _bored_. His first night was such a whirlwind, he'd woken up the next day tense and on high alert, ready to do some more verbal sparring with the alpha - already preparing himself, battening himself down against the storm that was his future husband. 

But, to his surprise (and subsequent irritation), Riddle has been nowhere to be found - for  _three days_. On the second, he'd cracked, humiliated, and asked Ron where he was. His manservant had shrugged, bashfully, cheeks pink, and said that he was away on a business trip, and had left the manor the previous morning.

It got Harry's blood boiling and he'd stormed off to some quiet part of the manor so he could fume in privacy.

He finishes his breakfast at a leisurely pace (after all, there's not much else to do), and heads back to his favourite library, the one with the window seat. He's not supposed to sit there, but ignores the disapproving looks of the staff that follow him around everywhere he goes. He has a cortège of three, as opposed to the single servant he's used to at home. The novelty of being able to order any food or drink whenever he wants has already worn off - he's not hungry, feels listless and restless at the same time. Trying to lose them didn't work either - Harry had been bored enough to try it - but they know the manor better than he does, and seemed to pop up just when he'd thought he'd succeeded. It's more their home than his. 

Tucked into the red walls, with a few huge gold-velvet cushions, stuffed with feathers, at his back, he resigns himself to yet more reading. His book is good; Riddle's libraries are extensive - he has two officially designated ones, not including the private one which Harry has been unable to enter, and if he feels particularly down, it always helps to remind himself that he's incredibly lucky he has all these books to read.

But what's the point in reading them if he never gets to go out and see all the things they describe, or actually put the knowledge he's gaining to use?

It cements it in his mind: Harry has to go out. He knows there's a village nearby - maybe an hour away by the best horses - and it's a Saturday morning, so surely there'll be a market on?

He jumps to his feet, not bothering to mark the page of his book, trying to hide the grin, green eyes alight in excitement for the first time in weeks.

 

*

 

Predictably, it takes a good few hours of indefatigable needling to convince first Ron (who was adamant that Riddle wouldn't allow it - Harry had to pinch the soft skin on the back of his hand to get the tears to well up) and then the senior butler, who looked constitutively disapproving and prudishly sensible. Unluckily for them though, Harry is used to having to manipulate the staff in order to to normal every day things - at aged 14 it took weeks of trial and error of this technique to be allowed to go riding on a horse larger than a small pony, but he managed it. It's not his fault they have these strange, stupid misconceptions about omegas, which just  _gape_  open for exploitation.

The older gentlemen finally relents when Harry sniffles lugubriously, looking achingly downcast, and mumbles that he just wants to find his new mate a small gift, to thank him for his hospitality. Harry looks unsurely up through thick wet eyelashes - "He doesn't want me, I know that's why he's gone away. I just want to be  _good_  for him, I'm so lonely here."

As expected, the butler melts like warm butter, pupils blackly dilating and a soft smile growing on his usually gratingly stern granite-lined face. He chuckles down paternally, clucking, almost looking like he's resisting the urge to pat Harry on the head (thankfully he seems to subconsciously pick up on Harry's emanating murderous intent at the possibility).

Concerned about the fragility of this new agreement: one single solitary hour of stall perusing, accompanied by two guards and Ron following behind and straight back home, Harry rushes upstairs to get changed and find his soft black coat. Everything he needs is already laid out, and his heart warms for his manservant. He's been lucky to be assigned Ron, who doesn't fuss over him or treat him like he's made of glass. 

Before he can wiggle into his outerwear, he's stopped by a maid. The butler is insisting Harry has a good lunch before his trip, and has arranged for a small banquet downstairs. He groans internally, but doesn't let the mask of demure submission slip.

He slips swiftly down the stairs and across the hall, inwardly congratulating himself on the correct navigation of the manor. At least he's learning the room names, which had loomed as an impossible feat upon his arrival. The beta looks on as Harry forces himself to eat at a normal pace, cutting the chicken breast into bite-sized portions. He's not that hungry and he doesn't know if it's due to the constant stress of not knowing when Riddle will return, or possibly a side effect of jumping off a cliff in terms of abruptly halting his ingestion of suppressants. Either way, the chicken (which he knows will have been lovingly cooked to perfection) is dry and crumbly in his mouth. He forces himself to finish it. 

The greying butler (who's name, Harry finds out from Ron, is Quirrel) gives a sigh and nods his head. Harry can't stop the excitement from bubbling up and smiles warmly up at him, letting one of the waiting staff pull out his chair so he can go back upstairs to change. 

 

*

 

The carriage journey seems to take much longer than an hour, and Harry can't stop his knee jostling up and down in excitement.

Ron gives him a look.

Chagrined, he puts a hand over it, pressing down to halt the motion and resumes his staring out the window. He was aiming to memorise the route (just in case) but it seem to literally be one road. When he remarks on this to Ron, the red-head snorts and explains that the village was built around the manor - Riddle's great grandfather pretty much set it all up and paid for it himself. Harry nods - it makes sense, Riddle is fantastically wealthy, even today.

The village itself, when they  _finally_  arrive, is not so much a village as a large town. They ride straight into the centre, through the gates. The guards give a wary nod as they pass without question - they recognise the insignia on the side of the carriage.

It's exactly how Harry hoped it would be; crowded, bustling and loud, with a rickety rows of colourful parallel stalls cramming together in a maze-like complex. White smoke winds thickly up into the sky, and the smell of succulent roasting pig floats through the air. Harry hears the excited shrill of children's screams as they dart, giggling, through the throngs of people, voices rising up and getting lost in the hum of the crowds.

He loves it already. 

He has purposefully been dressed as to blend in, as have the rest of their entourage. The carriage is stationed around the corner, and the driver yawns and settles into his seat, preparing for the wait. Harry hops out into the mud, unassisted, ignoring Ron's irritated hiss of "Master Potter!", enjoying the sound his boots make as they sink into the clots of muddy grass. 

The two guards are entirely obvious, as they fall into place to his left and right, but Harry doesn't care. Ron trudges over, looking slightly nervous, and hands him a pouch which clinks as he takes it.

"Here - spending money," he clarifies unnecessarily. Harry thanks him; it seems like way too much for just a "small gift" as Harry had termed it, but he doesn't care. He half entertains the possibility of picking up more suppressants - but such an expensive commodity would not be sold at a market stall, and anyway, it would most likely lead to a quick turn about home and house arrest for the foreseeable future. Oh well - he'll keep an eye out. 

Entering the crowd, Harry doesn't quite know which stall to go to first. He wanders round the food stalls, slightly annoyed that he was made to eat lunch before he came. Although, all the food was most likely purchased from here anyway.

He's been doused in scent blocker, but still finds the stall owners focusing on him with their yells and shouts of advertisement - whether consciously or subconsciously he doesn't know.

"Young man - how about the finest grain you've ever laid eyes on? And for the best price?"

"I can see you're tempted! Crispest, juiciest apples at the market, I swear on my mother's life."

He just smiles and keeps walking, and they quickly move on to the next peruser. It reminds him of the villages near the Potter estate, but he'd never been allowed to sink in and camouflage with the town in this way, as his father had purposefully always made sure everyone knew exactly who he was. Being heckled is a first - and he finds he quite enjoys it.

Turning the corner, Harry finds himself in the craft section. He makes his way slowly from stall to stall, admiring the beautifully fired clay plates and pans, the brightly coloured beaded jewellery, eye-catching clothing, even a little antiques store where he spies a few tattered and worn books. People must come from outside the town he realises; it's too large and too varied to just be for the townsfolk.

Before he knows it, Ron informs him that forty minutes have passed, and asks him if he's seen anything he'd like to buy. There's no point buying food - they have a horrifying supply of everything he could ever ask for back at the manor, so he turns his attention to the stranger stalls, the ones with the eclectic array of knick-knacks and little treasures, set up as small, shallow concave tents.

Ducking inside one, he wrinkles his nose. The smell of spice and sharply herbal incense is overpowering, and it does nothing to distract from how dark and damp the interior is. Murky jars litter the stacked shelves, each with a solitary exhausted firefly inside, throwing off a strange gloomy light. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up - there's something weird about this place.

Immediately, Harry makes to turn around and leave, but before he can rejoin the guards, who are waiting patiently outside (there's not enough room for two huge men  _and_  Harry  _and_  Ron) his arm is grabbed tightly. He jumps in surprise, heart beating out a quick staccato rhythm but before he opens his mouth to yell his gaze falls upon the perpetrator. 

It's just a child - a small, slightly tattered young girl, large brown eyes blinking up at him, set in thin, freckled face. She has a smudge of dirt across one cheek, and her dark hair is cut short into a chopped bob. Her grip is surprisingly strong for someone so tiny, fingernails digging into the skin of his arm. He breathes out, adrenaline fading, and crouches down so they're roughly the same height. 

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asks softly, eyes flitting over her in concern. She looks too thin - wrists like snappable twigs. 

"I was told to tell you..." she lisps, voice high and sweet. She looks down at her shoes, and back up at him shyly. Harry can hear the voice of the guards outside telling him to hurry up. He ignores them.

"Tell me what?" he prods gently. The girl releases her vice-like grip on his arm, wrapping her fingers together in front of her. He winces as the blood starts to flow back in. 

"They know what you're looking for. To make the hots stop." Despite her mispronunciation (she's obviously parroting someone else), Harry feels his stomach swoop.  _Does she mean...?_  It's concerning - he's not a fool - that someone a) knows who he is and, more importantly,  _what_  he is, and b) knows about the suppressants and his lack of them. 

His brows come together in worry and confusion. Before he can question her further, the guard's gruff black head pops through the opening and she jumps, running off, slipping under the back of the tent and out into the market. His jaw closes and his teeth press together with a click.

"Sir? Who was that?" the man asks suspiciously, bushy eyebrows raised in apprehension, casting a concerned glance around. Harry realises this looks pretty dodgy and stands up, forcing the guard to step back as he ducks out of the tent. Ron is standing across the path, smiling and chatting with the other guard - they haven't noticed anything amiss. 

It takes Harry all of two, rash seconds to make his decision: someone stumbles in between them, a tankard of ale in his hand, and a frown of annoyance flits over the guard's face. It's only for a brief moment but he's distracted. 

Harry darts back into the smoky tent, and dives down, smoothly wriggling out the other end of the tent, following the girl. It's like she was waiting for him: she's standing to the left, body curled in with the cold. It's yet another sign that this is a bad idea, if he's that predictable... but he doesn't care. The thought of taking suppressants without Riddle knowing is intoxicating, and Harry is willing to play with risk to follow it through.

As soon as they make eye contact she nods seriously, and darts away, slipping slightly on the mud as she does so. He's lucky that he's so small - as she runs on, Harry in pursuit, he sees the guard struggling to squeeze under the thick canvas material. He would grin, but dodging the people milling around forces him to concentrate. His guide is more agile than he is and he has to sprint to keep up.

They weave their way through the throngs of shoppers, cold air burning his lungs as he pumps his legs, twisting his body to fit through gaps. It's only a few minutes of running but already they apparently arrive at their destination - a unkempt cobbled courtyard leading on to the back of a dark, shabby house. They leap through the cracked wooden frame of the open door and Harry finds himself in a small, cramped kitchen, windowsill covered in a sprawling array of potted herbs.

Just seeing it makes him a little less wary;  _maybe she was actually telling the truth?_  He doesn't let his guard down all the way though.

There's a large, old woman draped in a vast sheet of black woolen material which wraps excessively around the thick trunk of her torso, hunkered up on a chair in the middle of the room like a huge spider. Her head is covered by a faded purple cloth which tattily winds down to wrap around her shoulders. She's heavy-set, double chins spilling out of the make-shift headscarf. There's absolutely no resemblance between her and the little girl - they can't possibly be related.

Panting, out of breath from the exertion, Harry strains his ears to catch any sound of his entourage. Nothing. The house is eerily quiet, and he can't even hear the sound of the market, although they can't be far away. 

Having delivered him to the location successfully, the girl skips away, pushing past him to walk through the door and back out into the courtyard, leaving him alone with the stranger. 

He gulps, noticing her watching him with impenetrable cold blue eyes. She's the first to break the sudden silence.

"So Harry, I understand you've come seeking herbs to halt your heat, am I correct?" Her voice is surprisingly deep and rich, accent crisp - not what Harry would expect from someone living in such a simple house.

He turns to face her all the way and nods. "Yes," he says simply. This all feels too good to be true, and his mind skips ahead to rejoining the others - he could blame it on the girl, tell them she was a thief who stole his money and he was simply chasing after her, and make it home, unbeknownst to them carrying his precious medicinal cargo.

The old woman rises at his answer, shuffling up until she towers over him, a pillar of black and purple. Her lips draw back in a smirk.

The realisation that he just confirmed his name - and therefore his identity - slams into him like a spooked horse, but of course, it's too late.  

He doesn't quite know how it happens. One moment she's in front of him, robes billowing and eyes flitting to something behind him, and the next, he feels a sensation of heat explode at the back of his skull, hears his knees hit the ground-

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (lol sorry about the cliffhanger but i had to cut it at some point and this seems to work best!)
> 
> I wanted to thank everyone who has commented, left kudos, bookmarked - i've really been blown away by the response to this, i haven't been able to stop writing (with a massive grin on my face too)
> 
> You're all awesome and thank you so much for reading this!


	6. Six

His mind bursts into consciousness, heart already pumping loudly. There's a vague need to retch swallowing up his sinuses, and he takes a deep measured breath to get it under control. Harsh white light starts to coalesce into shapes and eventually his vision swims into focus. 

He can't have been out more than a couple of minutes - he's still in the same house, he's sure, legs floppy and bouncing with a thud on each stair he's dragged up. Rough hands are half-carrying, half-yanking him by his shoulders. They haven't realised he's woken up. 

It feels like his teeth are vibrating, and he can smell a thick, omegan smell of distress painting the air - it's him, he realises, probably pouring out of every one of his pores. 

He hits his already bruised knees sharply on the bannister and can't help the groan of pain that slips out. The hands around him tighten, pulling him upwards. His legs slump onto bare carpet and he hears the sound of a door opening. 

Unceremoniously, his body is bundled up like a sack of potatoes and tossed down onto a scuffed wooden floor, and he has to bite down hard to muffle the noise that tries to escape his mouth. Harry looks up through the tendrils of black hair that have fallen into his eyes: there are three men staring down at him, and he has to fight through the dizziness to hear what they're saying. Belatedly, he realises two of them are alphas, and feels the dread start to close off his throat.

 _Shit_. Alphas are pretty rare - he's only ever met around fifteen in his whole life - so what on earth are two of them doing here? The realisation that this has all been planned starts to slowly sink in. 

"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" one of them is saying - the blonde alpha, bespectacled, wearing disgustingly intense red trousers. The beta stands next to him, slightly smaller and leaner with yellowish eyes. Harry's eyes flits unstably to the final alpha, lurking at the back. He can't see him well, but he's a huge hulking shape, clinging to the shadows in the room.

Harry almost scoffs out loud through his fear.  _Really - that's your opening line? How disappointingly predictable._ He says nothing though, waiting to see what they want - hoping they contradict the horrible direction his mind is following.

They don't. 

He's still woozy when he scrambles to his feet, backing away from Red-trousers who starts to edge towards him. All he can smell is his own fear, trapped in a horrifying feedback loop: the more aware of how distressed he is, the more distressed he becomes. The room is small and within three steps his back thuds against the peeling floral wallpaper and he has nowhere left to go. There aren't even any windows, just the daylight falling half-heartedly in through the door, and a single candle flickering in a dusty lamp on the other side of the room. 

"Hey. Hey now - no need to be afraid," red-trousers says with an easy grin, holding his hands up placatingly as if to show Harry he means no harm, even as he lumbers closer. Harry can see his nose wrinkle with the pheromones which are starting to fill the room, but it doesn't stop him. 

"Don't touch me," Harry bites out sharply, projecting a confidence he definitely does not feel.

Yellow-eyes in the corner can't quite muffle the laugh in time - it's short but braying. Harry shoots him the worst glare he can muster, although his vision keeps doubling. One of them must have hit him over the head with something, quite hard, as his skull is throbbing in time with his heart, a quick punishing tempo. 

Red-trousers smirks, bolstered by his friend's amusement, and tries to put his hands on Harry's shoulders. Harry snarls, drawing his knee up sharply into the man's stomach as hard as he can. 

The alpha lets out an oof of pain, and immediately backhands him, the blow snapping his head back against the wall. He can't have caused Red-trousers too much discomfort (he's an alpha, after all, and physically much stronger and robust), but it seems to have sparked his temper. The slap could have been much harder, but it still forces Harry to blink the stars from his vision.

Yellow-eyes only laughs harder, but the second alpha growls and steps forward into the dim light. 

Harry's breath stops short, even as he tries to drag in breaths through the pain. He recognises the auburn hair flecked generously with grey, the square chin and freezingly void hazel eyes: it's Lord Denver, his father's friend. Harry has met him only once before, when he came to the Potter estate for a short business meeting, around a year ago. From what he remembers, his father had cut ties with him soon after, but Harry doesn't know why.

Now he does though - because he's a fucking _psychopath_.

The name slips out unbidden from his lips, as he stares up in shock. He's so taken aback he almost doesn't notice that Red-trousers has grabbed him by the back of the neck - but then his sore kneecaps are once again hitting the floor and he knows it should hurt but he can't think through the warm sludge of panic that saturates his brain. 

He's dimly aware of the need to escape, that something is not quite right, but his mind can't get thoughts to coalesce. His inner voice stretches out nebulously, and he can only watch as the three converse. 

Red-trousers seems to be arguing with Lord Denver, shaking Harry's neck in gesture to supplement his words. He must not realise how sensitive it is - each pull feels like a brand, but he can't find the coordination to pull away. 

Yellow-eyes finally stops guffawing, and steps towards them, yanking Harry's coat off his shoulders. His voice is nasally, a hint of a foreign accent peeking through the words. "...Five minutes, then he'll be here. Just a matter of popping this one in the back and off you go." 

Harry's heart feels cold and he moans in horror. 

"There there little thing." Denver stands in front of him, so Harry's face is level with the waistband of his trousers.  _No no no no no_. The older man gently cards his fingers through Harry's sweat slicked hair, bends down and inhales right at his neck. As he leans back, Harry can see the lust in his eyes. 

"Strange, isn't it, that evolution would be so cruel." He murmurs to Yellow-eyes, who nods in obsequious agreement. "Such a flawed being," he continues his study of Harry's half-lidded, pained expression. "To think - one bite, and he'll lose his sense of self. Right... here." He touches a gloved hand to Harry's scent gland, the contact too much for Harry on top of the harsh grip on his throat.

It takes a moment but the meaning of the words filters down, and Harry- 

Harry explodes. 

Red-trousers' grip is gone in a heartbeat, fire licking up the corners of the walls, devouring the stray paper peeling off the brick like a starving hound. The alpha is screaming as his hands burn hotter, the flames nearing violet with their intensity.

Now that he's free, he wakes up fully, eyes wide in shock. For once, Harry is not in control here, he can't stop the flames even though he tries. It spreads, running in zigzags across the floor, ignoring the fact that there is nothing for it to burn - it would seem, for this particular fire, that the air itself is enough sustenance. Yellow-eyes takes one look at his companions and leaps for the door. Harry can only watch, numbly as a sheet of blue heat rises up and blocks the only exit.

He realises belatedly that all of this must have come from that single solitary candle - there's a huge black scorch mark on the wall where it was sitting before. 

His limbs are trembling, and he rises unsteadily to his feet. Denver is next to him, back pressed against the wall in a parody of Harry's position earlier. He looks down to see the fire underneath him. It's strange, he feels no heat at all. 

He thinks he might be in shock, and funnily enough it has nothing to do with the magical, wild fire growing in the room. That, at least, he can understand. It's more that this entire situation is actually occurring - he just can't understand how this happened, how he could have been so utterly moronic. 

He ignores the screaming from the three men, doesn't even look at them, pretends he can't smell the burning, just staggers through the flames and out the door and onto the landing.

Downstairs, the old lady is staring horrified up at him, quivering hands covering her mouth. "Charles!" she screams, eyes open and wild. 

 _Too late_ , Harry thinks, grimly amused and manages to move himself down the stairs.

It's almost comic in it's timing - just as he steps foot in the kitchen, the door to the house bursts off it's hinges, and the two guards rush in. They're obviously well-trained: they take one look at the situation and move fluidly into action. One gently takes hold of Harry, guiding him quickly but confidently out of the house. Looking over his shoulder, he sees the other one make an aborted effort to head upstairs, before he seems to shake his head, think better of it and turn to leave the house too. 

The flames are spreading, black smoke coughing vehemently out of every exit, a stark, incongruous contrast against the blue sky. Harry remembers the little girl and distantly wonders where she is and if she's safe. 

Outside Ron is there, pale face whiter than bone. He looks distraught, won't meet Harry's eyes, and Harry feels guilt start to bubble in his stomach. He hopes the other boy isn't punished for this.

People are starting to rush towards the house, drawn in from the crowds by the thick smell of acrid smoke. He stands there ghost-like, watching as people start to shout, pails of water sloshing between them.

It does nothing - the flames rage on.

Harry feels numb. He's aware of the fire, can feel it prickling in his ribs, but can't really get himself to snuff it out. He just stands there, curiously detached, watching.

Large, rough hands suddenly grab his waist from behind and pull him back, off the street and into the shadow of the neighbouring house. Harry shouts in surprise but from across the street both Ron and the guard only look up briefly and then  _immediately_  away.

It's then that he knows who it is.

Harry's heart swoops as a long arm loops constrictingly around his waist, ignoring his struggles, and physically picks him up, tugging him roughly around the back of the house and away from the crowds. 

"Riddle, I can walk." Harry's voice is pitched high, sounds shaky. He doesn't know if it's true. He's stopped trying to escape, realising it's futile, and chances a glance upwards at the other man.

Riddle is dressed in his overcoat and green scarf, hair in artful black waves. He looks perfectly put together, despite the commotion, and Harry would almost tip his description to "unfazed" but there is a distinct flush to his pale cheeks, and his eyes, when they look down for the briefest moments to meet Harry's, are blood red and  _furious_. 

"Don't." The command is bitten out incongruously quietly, like a sharp knife, from between his clenched lips. Harry has never been so frightened in all his life. 

People are automatically moving away from them as Riddle walks, heads dipping down in submission, necks bared. The sheer anger pouring out of the alpha is enough to make Harry feel shaky; the feeling starts to come back into his fingers and they begin to tremble. 

The arm around him is digging into his bruised ribs but for once Harry can't find the courage to complain, can't help but look down at the ground moving below him and bite on his lips to stop himself talking.

He is carried like a child back to the carriage, noticing the single horse tied up beside it. Riddle must have ridden here by himself, he realises. With each jostling step, he feels dread start to build up a crescendo. His finance has not uttered another word to him, and Harry can sense that the silence is a fluttering lid, barely containing his emotions. 

Harry's mind is beginning to recover, and put together the pieces. He can't quite believe Lord Denver tried to... to- forcibly mate him? That must be why his father cut all ties - if he made some kind of offer on Harry and wouldn't accept Lord Potter's refusal, it would certainly explain the severed relationship. Still, how on earth did he know that Harry would be in the town on that particular day, at that particular time? Did he have people working for him in Riddle Manor?

His questioning is brought to an abrupt halt as Riddle flings open the carriage door, pressing Harry close to his chest as he ducks inside. Harry thinks he will be let go as Riddle sits down, but he simply rearranges Harry's limbs until the younger boy is sitting across his lap. Harry's face burns with mortification - he feels like a recalcitrant toddler - but Riddle's grip is iron-clad. This close, he can feel the heat emanating from Riddle's torso, smell his spicy-sweet scent. As much as he hates it, it calms him down, slows the frantic beating of his heart and coaxes his muscles to relax.

Riddle raps twice on the door with his knuckles, signalling to the driver, and the carriage begins to move. Distantly, Harry wonders how on earth Ron will get home - or the guards.

"Sir, I-" Harry starts guiltily, but Riddle's nostrils flare, eyes still horrifyingly red.

"I thought I told you not to speak," he murmurs dangerously. He seems to be studying Harry, hands twitching from where they are clamped on his leg and back, as if suppressing the urge to examine him - or punish him.

Harry shuts his mouth angrily. Yes. He disobeyed him, but it's not like he  _knew_  he would be kidnapped. His head is pounding, mouth dry, and sitting on Riddle's lap in this position is uncomfortable, each bump in the road digging into the soft spots of his bruises. Quite frankly, he's had enough of unfamiliar alphas tossing him around. He feels like a rag doll, not even in control of his own body.

Harry grits his teeth, summons up his courage, and tries to push Riddle away, twisting his body towards the adjacent seat. 

Everything happens very quickly.

Riddle lets out a snarl, so low and so threatening that Harry immediately scrabbles to get further away.

At this, Riddle seems to lose whatever precarious hold he had on his temper. He grabs Harry by his throat, pinning him against the carriage wall with such brutality that despite his struggling he can't move, arms and legs continuing to flail as he fights for breath.

The hold is tight enough that a slight slither of air can get in and out, but it isn't enough, and Riddle knows it. The alpha patiently waits until he is purposefully held right at the point where he's about to pass out, neck in over-stimulated agony but head floaty, unable to quite pass properly into unconsciousness. 

Riddle’s face is close to his, expression violent. Although his voice is low with anger, the words are gentle, lapping against Harry's ear. It's almost worse than if he had shouted.

“Did you think you could run from me, Harry? Is that what this was about?” 

Harry keeps trying to move his head, break the hold, but one gloved hand is seemingly enough to keep him in place. Opening his mouth, nothing comes out but aborted words, the lack of oxygen not enough to push them past his lips.

With his other hand, Riddle trails the tips of his fingers down Harry’s neck, the soft stroking sending a pleasant hum down his spine, forcing his eyes to close halfway in bliss even whilst he fights for breath. Tears begin to well up at the sensory confusion - it's both sharply beautiful and agony-inducing at the same time.

Riddle leans closer, moves his mouth over Harry’s, soft lips rubbing over his in the barest imitation of a kiss.

“Did you, _darling_?” he mocks. The endearment couldn't sound less like one: Riddle's teeth close over his lip for a brief second, a frission of heat dancing down Harry’s spine. The alpha's hold relaxes slightly, enough for Harry to choke out his answer.

"No- I was just-"

Riddle chuckles quietly at his panic. "Losing control of yourself, burning down a house in central Whinging where everyone could see?"

Harry's blood runs cold. He'd suspected that Riddle had his suspicions... but he doesn't even sound surprised, says it so casually that Harry can only stare up at him, eyes wide.

"You know?" he whispers, ceasing his struggling.

Riddle loosens his grip, letting Harry slide down the carriage into the seat next to him, both hands rubbing at his neck. He gazes up into Riddle's eyes, which seem to have changed colour once again to a dark blue. 

"Of course I know, Harry. Did you think you were being subtle?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE reading your comments - thank you to everyone who took the time to leave me one, I really appreciate it!
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it :D And thanks for bearing with the cliff hanger in the last chapter, hopefully this makes up for it!


	7. Seven

 

Harry's panting, throat tender but not painful. Riddle was careful not to harm him, but he can already tell it will bruise. Through the windows, he can see they're back in isolated country, tall trees bowing past. The weather outside is almost too chirpy, still a beautiful blue, sunny sky, and Harry abruptly realises he can't smell the smoke anymore.

He doesn't really know what to say, can only reply with a strained "yes?"

Riddle looks amused, and his scent segues to something slightly lighter and less oppressive. He seems to have calmed down in the space between two seconds, and the sudden appearance of control again is throwing Harry off. He can feel the splotchy red in his cheeks burn more strongly, grasps the carriage seat with his hands to ground himself a little more. 

"Quite frankly I'm amazed the whole of England doesn't know by this point," Riddle says dryly.

Harry is still stuck in the mud of dumbfounded surprise and stares up, waiting to see the outcome. He tries to unfurl his body from it's frozen ball in the corner, cautiously stretching out his legs until his feet touch the floor again.

"Can you... do it too?" he manages to get out. Riddle's eyes fall to his lips as he speaks, and then flash back up to maintain that severe, intense eye contact he insists upon whenever Harry is present.

"Not quite like that," the alpha murmurs, eyes drawn to the window, where the smoke is a thin black line in the distance, reaching up to the sky. 

Harry's brain is slowly starting to work again. Although maybe not - he should, by all accounts, feel terrified of Riddle, the man just put him in what was effectively a chokehold, but instead he still feels a strange insidious desire to talk to him, find out what he wants.

"What do you mean?"

Riddle turns his body until they are directly facing each other, and sighs. "I was rather hoping we could save this conversation for much later on, but I suppose in light of today's incident I'm not left with a great deal of choice in the matter." 

The deep furrow in Harry's brow is starting to reignite the headache from earlier. In fact, the left-over adrenaline is slowly seeping away, leaving him annoyingly and uncomfortably aware of how bruised he is. The pain doesn't help: he's starting to get frustrated with Riddle's prevarication. 

"What conversation?" he demands, as calmly as he's able to. 

Riddle pauses, drinks in Harry's trembling, his irritated frown, the smudge of a bruise already blossoming on his pale throat. He seems to come to a decision that he doesn't like, as his face falls a fraction more serious, dark eyes staring out unsettlingly. 

The silence rests for a moment as if Riddle is waiting for something, some reaction from Harry. Slowly, he reaches up and peels his left glove off his fingers, sliding the smooth black leather off and letting it fall into his lap. Harry's eyes follow the movement. 

"I know that you started the fire in that horrible little house, Harry. And I know that since you were old enough to walk you have been able to control all the fire you have ever encountered."

Harry's tongue is like a dry lead brick in his mouth and he feels a strange need to justify himself.

"I couldn't control it."

"I know. You didn't mean to kill them, and I don't blame you for it."

The words are no less shocking hearing them in Riddle's low, crisp-English timber.

Harry takes a deep, stuttering breath in, holds it until his lungs begin to burn, and then slowly lets it slip out. The inside of his mouth tastes bloody. He'd assumed Lord Denver and the other two had died, somewhere in the back of his head, but hearing it stated with such brute nonchalance feels like someone has taken a hammer to his chest. 

Riddle's eyes are knowing and the air briefly tastes like burnt electricity. Harry suddenly understands: it's his anger.

"It's ok. They were scum - they touched you. If you hadn't killed them I would have, and believe me when I say it would not have been so quick."

Harry scoffs, can't help himself. "So  _they_  can't touch me, but you're quite alright to?" He spits, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show off the red marks where Riddle's fingers had squeezed. Riddle's gaze wallows in it, and Harry can see the incongruent satisfaction flash across his face. Of course - it's a stupid sign of alpha ownership.

For now, he puts his disgust to one side, just allows it to colour his expression. He needs answers more than he need to get into another fight. 

"How can you  _possibly_  know all this?"

Riddle simply holds up his gloveless hand, shows off the pale veins train-tracking under the delicate skin of his wrist. "I have the Hallows too." 

Harry is about to laugh (somewhat hysterically) at the madman, until his eyes catch sight of the small smudge on the left of his wrist, and the grin bleeds off his face. He jolts closer, unthinkingly grabbing Riddle's hand. Riddle's eyes go smoky at the brief flare of energy they both feel at the contact, but he allows Harry to draw it close to him, study it. 

"That's... that's impossible." Harry turns it slightly in the light, eyes fixed on the small red triangle, filled by a circle with a line neatly bisecting it. It looks like a small burn, and he probably wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking directly for it. 

He looks up, meets Riddle's eyes, and drops the hand as if it's scalding. "Evidently not," Riddle says. 

"How can-" Harry can't even finish his sentence. His eyes are wide with shock, can't help but press the tips of his fingers into his hipbone, where the exact same mark resides, scarred into his skin. 

The alpha notices the movement, watches quietly, as if memorising the location. He's annoyingly observant, Harry realises. 

"What do you mean, 'The Hallows'?" 

"The Deathly Hallows." Riddle speaks the words bitterly. His long limbs seem to tense for a moment from where they are taking up most of the carriage. "A long time ago, we both made a deal with old man Death." 

Harry can't help it this time: he bursts out laughing. "Are you quite mad?" 

Riddle doesn't like that.

Harry doesn't know what he does but from his perch on the edge of the seat, his knees suddenly feel a strange, constant pressure, and he's dropped to them before he can think, ears ringing and blood hot. All of a sudden his heart is darting through his ribs, and there is an insistent, overbearing weight pressing down on his neck, forcing it up and to the side. He grits his teeth, tries to breathe through it. He's never met someone who uses their alpha traits as a weapon so effectively - the man hasn't even lifted a finger.

"You would be wise to watch your words a little more carefully, Harry. My leniency only extends so far." Riddle's voice is silky, dangerous once again.

Almost as soon as it begins, the strange, horrifying pressure lets up and Harry chokes out a breath before he can stop it. He can't bring himself to look Riddle in the face, just rubs his hands against the pain in his legs and slowly, tentatively, rises back to a seating position on the cushioned bench. 

"My apologies, my Lord." The words are uttered quietly, but seem to be enough. The atmosphere slinks back to normal.

Riddle gently slips two fingers under Harry's chin and raises his head until they are once again eye-to-eye. He seems to accept whatever he finds there, holds it until Harry's shivering grows more violent, and the boy cedes, closes his eyes in a long blink. The pressure is light, fleeting, but Riddle's hands this close to his neck, to his scent glands, seems to cloud any lingering fear, turns it into a whining mess of want. 

"Accepted," Riddle says quietly.

Harry swallows. "I'd like to know more." He can't quite move his head back down, gives in to the pull to keep it slightly tilted. 

The alpha straightens, and Harry watches as the frigid breeze from outside ruffles his hair. There's orange late afternoon sunlight which falls on his eyes, a moving kaleidoscope filtered by the leaves. It makes them burn a bright amber again, artificially this time, but it still forces Harry to remember his anger from earlier. He shivers once again.

"How old do you think I am, Harry?"

It takes him a second to get over his suprise at this seemingly irrelevant question, but Harry quickly finds his tongue. 

"Twenty five?" 

Riddle smiles like the number amuses him. "I'm around two hundred and thirty." He seems to lap up Harry's utter disbelief, preens under it. "It doesn't matter to me if you don't believe me. You yourself have lived a life before this one, although I don't expect you remember." 

He's right: Harry does  _not_  believe him, not one bit. 

Apparently, Riddle does not like being called a liar - or a madman - so Harry tries to ask the question as diplomatically as possible. "How do you know?" 

"I knew you, before, briefly. Quite a while ago - I've been waiting for the last seventy years for you to come around again." 

Harry doesn't know if he should be laughing or crying. It's  _impossible_  - it must be - it's way too fantastical to be true. But there's a little corner of his brain which is insisting that this shouldn't be too out of the realm of feasible. After all, he can  _control fire_  for God's sake, just burnt down a house. People.

Harry's thoughts skip on quickly.

How else can he explain it? Why are Riddle's words so unbelievable when he has this strange, unbelievable gift himself? And how on earth would Riddle have engineered the mark of "The Hallows"? Harry is pretty sure that maybe two or three people have ever even had the _opportunity_ to see his strange birth mark for more than a brief moment. There's just no way. 

But how on earth is he supposed to believe  _this_?

Riddle seems to have an answer for him. "As I said, I do not mind that you don't believe me. You will," he states simply. 

Harry can't think of anything to say that won't get him slammed back down into the floor of the carriage again, so choses not to reply.

In the quiet, he can hear that the horse's cantering has been steadily growing slower, and when he looks outside the foliage looks increasingly familiar. The carriage turns, and the long driveway he saw on his initial journey to Riddle Manor, when he was accompanied by all his worldly belongings, quickly springs into view. How can so much have happened in a week? How has it all spun out of control so quickly? This is not at all what he had thought would have happened on that cold, exhausting day when he rode in here for the first time.

Harry is already dreading their return. Ron will most likely be upset and angry - in the space of a day he's managed to completely upturn the one genuine friendship he thought he could develop. The staff will all be gossiping about what he did. No more vague notions of personal space and freedom, he can already tell, he's burnt away that luxury. 

All he wants is to snuggle up under his duvet, where his scent is rich and it smells like home. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys we hit over 1000 kudos!! I can't believe it - thank you so much!! I've had so many lovely comments on the last chapter which I will try to reply to over the next few days, but honestly - you guys are the BEST READERS EVER. Every single one makes me feel so much better about my writing <3


	8. Eight

 

Harry has bathed, slept fitfully for thirty minutes, and eaten dinner alone by the time he makes his way to the red room, trailing behind the senior butler Quirrel. He's dressed in his nightwear - he didn't expect to be summoned at this hour and was left no time to change. As his footsteps echo softly down the high-ceilinged corridor, he tries to focus on what exactly he's going to say. He's more prepared now, has had more time to think it over, and is no longer distracted by the soot staining his fingers like black blood.

Despite this, he still feels nerves bounce around the pit of his stomach as the greying butler raps twice with his knuckles on the door to the room. The man purposefully doesn't look him in the eyes - none of the staff have. He hasn't seen Ron, has had no reassurance whether or not he even made it back to the manor safely. 

Quirrel pushes open the door and Harry steps inside, gaze going straight to the chairs in the middle of the room. Riddle's lithe form is somehow contained in one of them, staring down at the two crystal glasses on the side table, eyes lost in the warm, transparent colour of the whiskey bottle placed between them. The alpha doesn't look up when he walks in, although Harry can see his chest rise as he takes in a deep lungful of air. He tries to stem the wave of self consciousness that rises up at Riddle's blatant attempt to read what he's feeling. 

Harry hears the click of the door closing behind him. _There's no turning back now,_ he thinks grimly. Steeling himself, he walks slowly up to the scene and takes the other seat, subtly trying to reorient it a little further away from Riddle. The man's eyebrows raise, so he counts that as a somewhat pyrrhic victory as far as his dignity is concerned. Harry doesn't quite know what to say, and they sit in silence for a moment. It forces his mind to run through Riddle's earlier words, for the thousandth time that evening, and he is still no closer to figuring out whether Riddle is telling the truth.

Liquid sloshes against the glass with a tinkle as Riddle tops up his own drink and pours out a decent measure for Harry. He's a little surprised - most people wouldn't think that omegas enjoyed whiskey, as it's seen as very much an alpha's drink. He could certainly do with it though, and takes a measured sip. The burn blossoms beautifully on his tongue, licking it's way down his chest. It's a nice sensation so he swallows some more as he waits for Riddle to speak. The alpha is dressed in simple trousers with a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up to display his muscular forearms. It's a little strange seeing him so casually dressed - he looks softer this way, more approachable. 

"You're looking better," Riddle comments, eyes running across Harry's face. 

"Never trust a book by it's cover," he points out, giving a small, wry grin.

Riddle's eyes crease. "Quite so," he murmurs, taking a sip of his drink. Harry wonders how long he's been sitting there; the bottle is half empty, but Riddle seems to be entirely unaffected. 

He decides to stop prevaricating and just ask the question. "So," he begins, apropos of nothing, and halts. How does one broach the topic of making a 'deal with death'? How can he possibly choose his words to sound... well, not utterly insane?

"Ask your questions, Harry." Riddle's eyes are dark and knowing as they pin him from across the table. Harry half feels like one of the butterflies framed in the reading room, wings nailed into a board so their beautiful, dead pattern can be studied. 

He draws a breath - he's almost getting used to Riddle's scent at this point, has begun to enjoy it's taste on his tongue. "What did you mean when you said we made a deal? How can that possibly have happened? And what did you mean when you said we'd met before?"

The alcohol has loosened his tongue, and Harry feels like his words are coming out slightly too close together, seeping into each other like flint skipping over the surface of a lake. He pronounces the next words deliberately slowly. "I just _can't understand_."

The alpha shifts, recrossing his long legs and running his fingers through the the dark waves of his hair. He stares down into his glass again, seemingly thinking about how to phrase his reply. Harry waits, fingers squeezing around each other on his lap. It doesn't take long before Riddle starts to speak.

"I found out how to summon death when I was a teenager. Magic was real, back in those times, and although it was hard to find it hadn't yet been lost to the world - to the few who still knew how to use it," he begins, eyes lost in whatever memories are running through his head. Harry takes another sip of his drink to stop himself interrupting, questions already bubbling up on the tip of his tongue.

"I read a lot, as much as I could find on the topic. I was obsessed with my own mortality. It didn't seem fair that I had to die - other people, yes, but  _me_?" He chuckles blackly. "I was a bit of a narcissistic teenager."

Harry scoffs internally at his use of past tense, leaving his face entirely blank.

"I was like you, could feel flames, bind them to my will. I gave that up when I found the Hallows." 

"'The Hallows'?" Harry parrots, leaning closer. There's some strange, deep sadness in Riddle's words that's both intriguing and awful at the same time. Riddle finally glances up at him to meet his eyes. 

"The wand, the stone and the cloak," he recites softly. "The three ways to trap Death, to those cunning enough to steal the complete set without the old man catching on." He sighs bitterly. "The story of how I did so is one for another time."

He continues on before Harry can protest. "As I said, we met 70 years ago, when I had lived at least three lifetimes. I was somewhat of a monster by this point, caught up in my own immortality."

The words are bitten out tersely, almost as if Riddle is resentful of his past self. "Everyone I had cared for died - I watched them grow old, and then I watched their children grow old. They all came and went, and I stayed the same. Nothing could amuse me anymore, everything lost it's colour, it's  _meaning_  in the context of all of that  _time_." Riddle's eyes have once again flitted to some place far away, and his hand is white as it clenches on the arm of the chair. 

"I had convinced myself that the only way to forge a better world was through fire and through blood. And I, of course, would be the one to lead it." 

Harry tries to untense his muscles but he can't. There is something terrible in Riddle's voice, and a strange feeling, a little like fear, creeps up his spine at that matter-of-fact tone.

"What did you do?" The words leave his lips as a whisper. 

Riddle grins with his teeth. "Well, I began to do so. I killed and I slaughtered. It was easy - I was a wealthy pureblooded alpha, with the benefit of a hundred and fifty years of knowledge behind me. The world fell at my feet." 

For a second Harry can see it, the picture of Riddle perched lazily on a throne of bones, smiling at the burnt carcass of the London he leaves behind. He begins to dread the answer to his next question, even before he voices it. 

"Then how did you meet me?"

Riddle reaches out across the table and traces a finger over the goosebumps on Harry's hand, where it's clutched around his glass. Harry feels something like terror lock his limbs into place. 

"Oh Harry. You were such an angry little thing," he purrs, voice like melted chocolate. "You stole into my chambers and tried to kill me." 

The air is suddenly extremely thin and he becomes aware that his face and chest are uncomfortably hot from the alcohol. All throughout the conversation, the realisation that Riddle is  _dangerous_  has been slowly filtering down. This is a man whom Harry is beginning to believe has mastered  _death..._ and they met through an assassination attempt? He doesn't want to believe in what Riddle's saying, but can't quite look away from the other man's amused gaze. 

"What," he manages to get out shakily. 

"You nearly succeeded," he says dryly, ignoring the strange intense atmosphere still saturating their conversation. "Unluckily for you, I couldn't die. But you walked in there with your raw, gaping magic and threw the darkest spell at me there was. All the while  _apologising_. I couldn't quite believe it - this barely sixteen year old omega with sad green eyes managing to get through my wards." 

"Did you... did you kill me?" Harry asks faintly. 

He chuckles darkly, leaning forward to top up both their glasses. The whiskey has almost run out; Harry feels dizzy but whether that is from alcohol or shock he has yet to decide. "Of course not. You were far too interesting to kill just like that. I kept you in my chambers for three months."

Harry picks up his glass and takes another gulp, ignores the burn, and fixes his eyes where it is safe to look, on the floral swirls in the thick carpet under his chair.

"Of course, you tried to kill me again. But once you realised you couldn't, we began to talk. At first you would just shout angry platitudes at me, tell me that I was killing your friends, destroying the world. That I was egotistical, a psychopathic megalomaniac." Riddle seems to find the memory of this funny, whereas Harry just feels sick. 

"Eventually, we both grew tired of that. You refused to tell me where you'd learnt your magic, so I had to keep you alive." Riddle fixes him with a look. "You're very easy to talk to, you know." 

Harry stares at him blankly. 

"We would have the most...  _fascinating_  conversations. You had such an strangely interesting perspective of life, despite your desolate upbringing. There was nothing I could say to dissuade you from your morals, from your view of people having intrinsic worth. And eventually, you started to creep inside my head. I'd find myself considering our last talks at the most inopportune moments. Your words would flash through my mind, making it that little bit harder to cast any of the...  _darker_  spells that had once come so easily to me." 

Harry shivers.

"I began to look forward to returning home in the evenings, to coming back and arguing with you." Riddle's scent flares into something fond. "Three months, Harry. That's all it took you." 

He pauses and the smile begins to fade from his face. "But Death is a conniving old bastard."

Harry breathes, tastes the electricity in the air. "What happened?" 

"There is a certain flow to the universe. Life, death. You can't cheat the system, however well you can manipulate it." Silence reins for a few heartbeats whilst Riddle seems to consider the next part of the story. 

"Immortality, Harry, is a dreadful thing," he finally says. "There must be a trade. Every death you avoid, another one must take your place." 

The realisation starts to creep into Harry's mind, wrapping icy tendrils around his throat. His mind is jumping ahead, already in denial.

"Death saw an opportunity and he took it." Riddle's voice is softer now, bitter. "There was another assassination attempt whilst I was away in the East. I, of course, survived." He gazes at Harry, and he can see a glint of acidic fury hidden in the blue depths. "You did not." 

"I was furious, of course, I knew as soon as I stepped foot back in London. I slashed my arms open, summoned the creature with my blood, spat in his face and challenged him to a duel with the wand. If nothing else, Old Man Death is a self-preserving thing. He offered me a deal. You would come back, some time in the next hundred years when your soul cycled back around, if I gave him what he wanted."

Harry swallows. "And what did he want?"

The shadows masking some of Riddle's face seem to grow and spread until the alpha is blanketed in a shifting darkness. Harry can't feel the heat of the fireplace anymore. 

"To eat my soul." Riddle pronounces the words with a razor-sharp edge. 

Harry's sure his face must be white as bone. It sounds like the punchline of a children's joke, but the way Riddle says it leaves an  _echo_. Something terrible and dark lies in his voice. 

"And did he?" he whispers, staring up where Riddle is looming on his chair like a demon prince on a throne. 

The alpha smiles slowly. "Part of it, yes." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I've been really busy but finally got a chance to sit down and write. Ngl guys, I really like this chapter. Little bit nervous about posting it though, would love to hear what you thought!


	9. Nine

 

The room is very still. Nothing moves - neither Riddle nor Harry in their grandiose, opposing chairs, nor any of the candles in the teardrop shaped glass lamps on the walls. The tiny flames illuminating the room burn uncharacteristically statically, and for once their unnatural behaviour has nothing to do with Harry. He feels the sudden need to speak, to break the oppressive quiet that follows Riddle's last confession.

"How did he do it?" he eventually makes out, swallowing around the words with difficulty. "Eat your soul?"

Riddle has moved closer to him, somehow, in the moments it took him to take a sip, and the alpha is now near enough to touch, the slither of space between their knees so small that Harry can feel the warmth pouring off him. It would be so easy to sway forward, close the gap between them and feel that additive, syrupy buzz.

Harry purposefully holds himself very still.

Riddle's eyes lock on to Harry's. "He licked his lips and reached in with his cold dead, hands and  _hacked,_ " Riddle murmurs. "He carved off a bloodied piece of myself, laughing all the while, unhinged his monstrous jaw and chewed. I felt bits and pieces of who I thought I was, my memories, my feelings, just... evaporate."

His eye contact is disturbing, irises glinting red again. "You can't imagine," he says softly. "How it feels to become  _less_."

Harry feels a strange nausea start to bubble up in his stomach as he pictures it. "I'm sorry," is the only thing he can think to say in response, mind weighed down by the fact that Riddle apparently did _that_  to bring him back.

He opens his mouth to ask another question, but nothing comes out. The knowledge of something has been building at the back of his head for a while, and it's now that he suddenly realises, when he tastes the air.  _Riddle's scent has changed_. It has taken Harry until this point to figure out, but for a while now it has been growing subtly stronger, more enveloping as he's been speaking. It drifts into Harry's lungs as a soft, coaxing chemical fog, and in the space of Riddle's reminiscence, he has abruptly identified exactly what it means - this strangely warm smell that he wants to curl up in. 

It laps at the shores of Harry's senses, a quiet but insistent echo of  _want_.

Harry isn't even sure if he's aware he's doing it. The more he lets his mind rest on what his senses are screaming at him, the more he begins to wonder: just what happened in those three months where Riddle kept him an unwilling prisoner? A captive omega... surely he must have had a heat? He bites on his lip and downs his glass to stop that train of thought. He can't even taste the whiskey anymore - he's definitely drunk, the world somewhat hazy. Riddle's image keeps flickering - for a second he thinks he sees, horns, red eyes, and then he blinks and the alpha is back to the picture of elegant gentlemanly poise again. 

" _This_  is what death is?" he wonders aloud. "I always thought at the very least it was equal, fair in a way. But instead, he trades the lives of others for fun and devours souls in exchange for providing some terrible version of immortality?" He shakes his head in solemn disgust. "Why bring me back if presumably I'll just be...  _killed,_ again, whenever this iteration of your life runs out?"

Uncharacteristically, Riddle heaves out a sigh and Harry looks up in instant apprehension. "It doesn't quite work like that." 

"You see, Harry, the problem," Riddle continues, drinking up his reaction, "is that your fire is a special gift. It is not normal, not by any definition of the word, and you did not have it in your past life." He leans forward, huge shape moving very quickly, placing his glass down on the wood of the table with a soft click. 

"Your fire has been given to you by  _him_. And each person it consumes is a life you gain."

The images of Lord Denver and his alpha and beta associates flash through his mind, and suddenly he can't speak for the horror gripping his mind.

Riddle eyes are knowing. "Yes. You see my point, Harry - three so far. Three lifetimes, however long they would have been, have been added to yours." 

The chair screeches obnoxiously loudly in the silence of the room as Harry leaps to his feet, fists clenched white. "But I don't want them," he spits, green eyes glassy with an anger that is safer than the blanket of shock and dread that has settled over him. "He can have them back, I  _don't want them._ "

The alpha rises, sidles closer. His collar of his white shirt gapes open to reveal pale collarbones reaching out to broad, rounded shoulders. Harry's too drunk to react quickly enough, can only stare in sick, dumfounded rage as the alpha circles him. 

"You don't get a choice, I'm afraid," Riddle says from beside him, stepping closer and laying his fingertips on top of the thin fabric of Harry's nightgown, underneath his left hipbone. Harry feels a rush of heat so strong that his knees nearly buckle from the brief pressure. It feels like his entire focus has been drawn to that one, small point of contact, where Riddle's signet ring glints golden in the light.

"This mark of the Hallows, burnt into your lovely skin, is proof of that," he continues, voice a little deeper than usual, like the contact is affecting him too, and Harry inhales sharply as Riddle's fingers start to smooth over the mark almost unconsciously. It's so wildly, inappropriately intimate - his hand is curving around Harry's hip, holding it like he can't stop himself, and Harry has a brief flash of what it would be like on their wedding night, without the material in the way, where that hand would go next, if it would dip down to where he  _aches_ -

All of a sudden, the atmosphere in the room changes - Harry feels it shift, can taste an edge on the air. Riddle stiffens from where he's somehow become draped over Harry, takes a deep breath and lets out a quiet, small chuckle, instantly putting Harry on edge.

His next words makes Harry's throat close up.

"Do you really think I'm going to keep holding back," he murmurs, bending down and nosing along the omegas nape, inhaling as he scrapes his stubble along the sensitive skin. "When you start to smell like that?"

He leaves a trail of over-sensitive goosebumps in his wake, other hand coming down to grip Harry's other hip, the pressure grounding and overwhelming at the same time.

Harry can't quite believe this is happening - Riddle just told him he's a mass-murderer, is immortal, has  _lost part of his soul_ , for God's sake. It is not the time nor the place for this, he shouldn't be getting  _wet_  from the man's hand on his fucking  _hip_ , no matter how much he's had to drink.

But he is. 

Everything feels like it's spiralling out of control rather quickly. "Smell like  _what_?" he can't help but ask, the frustration slightly offset by the fact that he's leaning into the pressure, letting the cradle of Riddle's fingers slowly pull their bodies closer.

Riddle is a wall of heat behind him, body cocooning Harry's, his lips hovering over Harry's scent glands. "Don't play coy Harry." He whispers with a smile, lips brushing over the sensitive patch of skin as he says the words. Harry feels that strange, consuming heat start to settle over his muscles, the pull at the pit of his stomach. His cheeks feel warm, head light - he can't  _think_  properly.

He tries to turn, to meet Riddle's eyes, but just from the two points of contacts on his waist, the hands hold him still. His face burns hotter with mortification as he can't stop himself pushing back a little, trying again just to feel the firmness of the alpha. He wants more, he wants space. He doesn't know what he wants. The alcohol in his bloodstream is slowly corroding his rationality - not to the extent where he'll let something stupid happen (he won't), but more in the sense that he's not hiding his reaction as well as he usually does. And Harry knows: this is dangerous admission where an alpha like Riddle is concerned.

Riddle chuckles again, probably at Harry's quick, shallow breaths and lack of a response, the sound silky next to his ear.

" _Look_  at you," Riddle says just before Harry feels a hot wet tongue lick a stripe up his neck, a quick, overwhelming burst of feeling as it runs along his scent gland. He doesn't mean to close his eyes, hears himself make a strange noise - a bit like a gasp, and he tries to bite it off. It feels so  _good_  though, a burning warmth reaching its tendrils into this abdomen.

The alpha makes another of those small, low growls, fingers clenching on Harry, turning him, tugging him closer. Head fuzzy, Harry nuzzles into the space between the alpha's neck and shoulder, face buried in the smooth, warm skin. He takes a deep lungful of Riddle's scent, and it hits him like a blow to the head. He feels his knees get shaky, feels Riddle arms tighten around him, taking some of his weight. He can't stop breathing the other man in - he smells like home, like something  _right_  and  _wonderful_  has clicked into place. 

It's that realisation that seems to startle Harry out of his alcohol and scent-high induced stupor. His body doesn't feel like his own, he's overheated, dizzy, too relaxed, feels an overwhelming urge to please the man who's pressing Harry's head into where his scent is the richest. He wants to make him proud, wants praise, wants Riddle to grip his neck and make him lose-

It feels like a super human effort, but Harry manages to wrench his head away, hold his breath. For whatever reason, Riddle allows this, gradually loosens his grip enough so that Harry can step away, put some space between them. Riddle is looking surprisingly debauched, lips a slick red, eyes dark and half-lidded, and his gaze won't stop running over Harry, hands twitching as if to grab him back. It's a little unexpected, as Harry had assumed he was the only one so monstrously affected by this strange biochemical current which runs between them.  

"This- this isn't a good idea," Harry says, tugging up his night robe from where it had fallen down on one shoulder. His voice is still a little husky, words still a little loose. 

Riddle says nothing, just  _looks_. Harry doesn't know quite where to go from here. He doesn't know if he _can_  leave, if Riddle will  _let him:_  the manners which have been drilled into him by punishment after punishment force him to stay. He can't turn his back on an alpha - it's a challenge.

"And why is that?" Riddle asks softly.

Harry takes a shaky grasp on his control and extends a tendril of thought, letting the lights nearest to them go out and plunging the alpha into even thicker shadow. It feels good to exercise his ability, show a little power, even if just in principal. Riddle's eyes still glint silver, catch the remaining light. He's very still.

"If you don't mind, milord, it is late and I would like to go to bed. I have... much to think on," Harry says quietly, avoiding the question, trying to scrounge together the vestige of etiquette that lies crumpled on the floor after this conversation. 

Riddle's looming, dark shape in the centre of the room seems to suck him in for a brief heartbeat, almost like he has control of the gravity in the room, and then the feeling is gone, floats away in the air. Riddle seems to come back to himself. 

"As you wish." 

Harry can feel his eyes, hot and heavy on his back as he walks away on trembling legs. He doesn't look back.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm so glad so many readers liked the last chapter, I was introducing a lot of plot so I was a little nervous! Thank you all for your kudos and comments, I keep smiling every time I login and see another one :D
> 
> Hope you like this - as always, really interested to know what you think/any concrit on my writing!


	10. Ten

The next morning finds him staring down at his extravagant breakfast, unable to eat a bite of it. He'd somehow slept in, awoken by an unfamiliar servant who had collected him for breakfast, and he still feels rumpled and a little disoriented, eyes soft with sleep. It doesn't stop him sneaking glances down the table, to where Riddle sits, calmly drinking his morning tea and smelling so  _alpha_  that Harry's stomach clenches.

He suppresses the yawn and tries to straighten, shoving a forkful of some strange fruit in his mouth and steadfastly ignoring the way the buttery morning light is lighting up the rich brown in Riddle's hair, the blue in his eyes. He forces himself to look down, watches the drifting shadows slipping silkily over the pristine white tablecloth as he chews slowly. There's a freshness to the air today, like the servants have thrown open the windows, regardless of the cold, to let the sun in, and it helps Harry feel like this is somewhat of a turning point.

At least he knows now.

It doesn't stop him feeling strange though, light and fluttery, hyperaware of every movement Riddle makes as he slowly flips between the pages of his morning paper. The man who's doing something as mundane as reading the paper five feet away from Harry is  _immortal_. He's killed people, killed  _Harry_. Technically.

It's mind-bending.

He reaches for his ostentatiously decorated tea cup, taking a sip of piping hot earl grey as he mulls over Riddle's words from the night before. One thing is certain: he has to find out more about Death. Harry is absolutely convinced that his next move here is to understand more about the situation in which he has found himself, and that the key to doing so will lie somewhere in the the seemingly endless collection of books that comprise the three main libraries in Riddle manor. When he lays it all out in his head it's pretty simple: figure out what (if any) rules govern the creature - God? - and understand how Riddle could even have summoned or communicated with it in the first place.

He has to force his leg to stop bouncing under the table as he think about it once again, lethargy slowly burned away by impatience. He gulps down the last of his the tea, frowning a little at the bitterness of the stray leaves at the bottom, and clears his throat quietly. 

"May I be excused?" he asks, already drawing his chair back in anticipation.

Riddle hums, and looks up from his paper, regarding Harry a little thoughtfully. "Not yet." 

Harry's legs falter, and he stares up in surprise. "Pardon?"

Riddle lowers his papers, appraising him. His eyes do their usual doctor-esque inspection, running over Harry's comfortable, oversized linen shirt, halfheartedly tucked into soft tan riding trousers. It makes him feel irritatingly self conscious - he's underdressed, yes, but as far as he was aware they have no plans for the day...?

"Come here Harry." 

Harry's skin pricks up with apprehension but he obeys, rising and walking over. He stops at a polite distance of a meter or so away and warily regards the other man. It's strange being able to look down into his face from above for once.

Beginning to smile in a way that Harry resolutely  _does not like_ , Riddle gives the slightest shake of his head.

"Closer," he demands softly, lazily.

Harry keeps his chin down, and takes two quick steps. Riddle's knees are nearly touching him, and Harry forbids himself to look down to where Riddle's strong thighs are parted in casual splay. 

"Sir?" he ventures, slipping back into habit. At this point Riddle's insistence of crossing every line of personal space has him already expecting what will come next. 

A hand grips his wrist and tugs, pulling Harry so he stumbles and falls into the curve of Riddle's chest with a yelp. It's embarrassingly predictable - he can  _feel_  his pupils suddenly spread, very black and very wide, and he can't stop himself sucking in as much of that spicy sweet scent as he can. He's gently arranged so that he's sideways, face pressing into where Riddle's scent is thickest. 

"Now, seeing the kind of trouble you find when you're unmarked, I think this is the best solution, don't you?" Riddle says as he rubs his chin over Harry, hands smearing his scent everywhere - on Harry's wrists, neck, smoothing down his arms, his  _thighs_  - and that elicits the kind of heat that Harry definitely wills away. 

"At least now if you go wandering off they'll know who to return you to." His voice takes on a little rough tinge, a quiet savagery underlying the words. 

"Clever," Harry chokes out, the sarcasm as thin as the air in his lungs.

Riddle's hand slips beneath his shirt at that, and presses down with an insistent pressure, palm flat on Harry's stomach. It's as much as a threat as he needs. Harry is easily breakable, and he can literally  _feel_  the shifting of muscle beneath him as Riddle makes sure that every inch of him is reeking of alpha. Even as Harry's cold, hard logical side is sneering, the emotional one is blissfully sated, curling like a well-fed cat. He feels warmer, safer, and it's so stupid but he also has this annoying urge to give it right back. He wants Riddle to smell like  _him_.

His hand shakes, and he moves before he can regret the decision, lifting his wrist and pushing it it over the junction between Riddle's neck and his shoulder, at the place where his scent collects. Riddle stiffens, hands twitching from where their clasped around Harry's waist, his thigh, and he stills, almost as if frightened to scare him away. Harry breathes through the wave of possession that wells up at the action, tries to ignore the strange, bassey growl that seems to be vibrating through Riddle's body, so quiet he can barely discern it.

"Happy now?" His voice sounds small, but firm. He's not scared, he's just a little taken aback at how horrifyingly easy it is to give in to what his reflexes tell him to do.

This time, it seems, Riddle has a little more control. He laughs, the sound smoky and delicious, before gripping onto Harry's wrist and keeping it pressed against his neck. He turns his head slightly, dark hair tickling Harry's arms, and presses his lips to Harry's wrist.

"Very," he promises, and Harry can't look away from his eyes. They're so unbearably satisfied and  _hot_ , ringed a little with red, and it makes him hold back a squirm, makes his clothes a little too constricting and his breath a little faster. 

Things are moving too quickly, he realises. Of course they are, their biology won't let them move slowly. Harry's stupid body knows what it wants - as does Riddle's. And it doesn't help that the more he learns, the more intriguing the alpha becomes.

He's so _curious_  it hurts.

  

*

 

In the library, a few hours later, Harry presses his wrist up to his nose and lets that familiar warmth spread through him. It calms some of the frustration he's feeling.

The section of the room he's in is one of the cosier parts of the house, and the sun's rays have just emerged from the white clouds, piercing through the circular glass dome at the top. It fills the room up in a warm, milky glow, and Harry blinks away from the page he's reading, pulling his hand back down to his lap. He can't afford to get distracted.

He has a vague notion that he needs to somehow communicate with "old man Death". Contrary to how he's sure a lot of people might feel, Harry neither needs nor wants to be immortal, especially not at the expense of others' lives. Life is worth so much more than that, precisely  _because_  it has an end. 

He shuts the book with a snap, closing his eyes with irritation. To be completely honest, he's a little hungover. His limbs feel achey and there's an unpleasant sourness in his temples that's only grown the longer the morning has worn on. The little scenting session with Riddle had dulled it for a while, made him feel nice and floaty, but the more time he spends flitting through the pages of a hundred different books, the more the headache begins to grow again. 

  

*

  

He repeats this horrible routine for three days.

Harry wakes up to an unfamiliar room, the scent of Riddle thick in the air, makes his way downstairs to have breakfast, consents to having Riddle's scent pressed up against him, and then goes off to one of the libraries to scour the shelves for a clue. He's sure Riddle would have left some sort of indication  _somewhere_  in his library. There are book on pretty much every topic conceivable in there, and he makes himself a nice tall tower in the morning, the pile shrinking as the light slants orange and waning, colouring his skin a rosebud pink. What exactly Riddle does during the day, he's still not too sure - but the alpha does run an empire, so to speak, and so he hopes vindictively that it involves signing a lot of boring paperwork. 

It's also a chance to hide. Their bonding ceremony is veering up fast, and the servants are busy transforming the left wing into an ostentatiously decorated wonderland, suitable to hold the many hundreds of guests who will be invited up next week. He still has the annoying shadow of a manservant that follows him round, keeping an eye on him, but the rest of the staff's presence has somewhat diminished as one by one they're pulled off whatever day-to-day tasks they've been working on to help with the preparations. He catches sight of carriages arriving what seems like every hour, laden with wines, silks, glass, chandeliers and more and more chairs and tables until Harry considers the idea of them building a whole new house in it's entirety. Bonding ceremonies, unlike traditional marriage, are denoted by the theme of a dark, sultry red, and every corner Harry turns these days he's confronted with yet another way it's snuck into the manor. Silk sashes drape from the curtains, dark roses spring out of vases, the table clothes, tapestries, rugs, everything glints port red and silvery-gold. 

Harry rolls his eyes but inside his chest is a tiny seed of apprehension, a small thrill of nervousness and dread, when he think that in one week's time Riddle will be a gentle presence inside his head. He won't belong to himself anymore, as much as society thinks he doesn't currently anyway, will have a physical reminder burnt into his neck that he has a mate, an alpha. Forcing himself not to think of it is harder than it sounds, and so Harry throws himself into this potentially futile research with all the frenzy of a dying man.

On the third day, about an hour or two after he's settled into his usual spot (he ignores the tiny voice in the back of his head that tells him he's nesting here, purposefully doesn't look at how he's chosen a suspiciously comfy armchair in a quiet corner to curl up in, fur and blankets piled on top), he realises that someone else is in the library with him. Chewing his lip, he glances up from the book that he's been squinting at, just in time to see a little shift of movement, the figure obscured by a shelf. He catches sight of a glint of golden eyes, and then whoever it was is gone. 

Harry pauses, waiting to see if they return, but after a while he figures it was probably just a maid, and returns to the elusive task of separating fairytales and fiction for something that looks a little more promising. So far the latter pile is woefully small.

He reads for another five minutes, before getting up, stretching. He's been thinking about trying to find Ron and engage him in some croquet outside - his valet has been quiet, subdued ever since the incident. Harry's wanted to respect that, and give him some space to be angry. He's tried to apologise but Ron just shrugs it off, won't quite meet his eyes. 

Rising to his feet, he turns around and yelps.

Standing extremely close to him are the owner of the golden eyes from before, and the man - servant, Harry realises in a blink from the way he's dressed - jumps, banging into both Harry and the precarious architecture of books he has littering the floor around him. 

Harry twists to stop him but the servant slips, crashing into the floor.

"Are you ok?" he asks in concern, kneeling to help the poor man up. He takes him in: tall for a beta, long honey-blonde hair twisting into a low ponytail and a dusting of freckles smattering across his nose. He looks young, around the same age as Harry.

"Yes, sir, my deepest apologies," the boy babbles pitifully, skittering to standing and bowing. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just asked to see if you'd care for some refreshment and you just looked so peaceful reading that I didn't want to break the moment and--" 

Harry can't help it and the corners of his lips turn up. "Honestly, it's quite alright," he murmurs, interrupting the stream. "Don't worry about it, I'm just glad you're not hurt."

The servant gives him a watery smile of gratitude, probably shaking at the thought of Riddle, and bends down to help rearrange the books. Harry tries to hold back the sigh - they're in a jumbled mess now, and he'll have to sort through them again to figure out which one's he's read.

After bowing and apologising profusely, he takes his leave, promising to return with the aforementioned drink. Harry resettles himself so he's lying on his back, legs hanging over the back of the chaise lounge, staring up at the clouds drifting past. He breathes out, closing his eyes, letting the sunlight glitter on his eyelashes. 

He's going to be bonded. Next week. And he's still without suppressants.

Harry opens his eyes and stares at the tiny flames dancing along the tips of his fingers. It begs some disbelief that these are the most normal of his bag of problems.

What's worse is that his soon-to-be mate is a so-called master of death, and Harry is arguably also immortal. 

He can't help but tip back his head and laugh until his eyes are wet. He gives himself a few minutes to just breathe, and then sits up. He has to find a solution. It will be here, in this manor, he's sure of it. Even if he has to twist the answers out of Riddle himself. 

Grabbing the nearest book he flips it open, lazily scanning the page. The strange white cover is unfamiliar - he thinks this might be one of the ones he hasn't read yet.

The page turns and Harry bolts upright, hands beginning to tremble and breath halting.

The sign of the hallows, the same one on his hip and Riddle's wrist is clearly stamped on the page. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait - i promise i haven't forgotten about this one, but I've been pretty wrapped up in writing God of Nothing recently so it's had to take a bit of a backseat. 
> 
> and tbh i read back through my (hilariously bare) plot notes for this and have had to have another think about where exactly i want this to go, hence the change in name. i feel like Denouement doesn't really fit it all that well anymore...
> 
> in any case, hope you all have a great week!


End file.
